Dean never could get the hang of Thursdays
by Madam Mimm
Summary: AKA Dean Winchester's Guide to the Universe. When the Earth  as a collective  is let go, Balthazar hitches a lift and takes his ape-descendant friend with him. Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy plot-steal. Corporate!Dean, Stoner!Cas, Dean/Cas, Sam/Gabe.
1. Chapter 1

This plot-steal is based on Douglas Adam's masterpiece, with Eric Kripke's characters. I own neither the board nor the pieces, but am responsible for one's movement through the other. This is wildly, wildly blasphemous, and if you take Christianity seriously at all, it may be best not to read this. If there is a Hell, I am fully aware I'm headed there, so there's no need to leave flamey messages.

(-)

This is the story of a book. Or, to be more accurate, 'The Book'.

It is perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come from the Megadodo Publishing Company of Ursa-Minor Beta. It is more popular than _"How Clean is your Hypercube"_, more informative than _"Where Are They Now: God"_, and more popularly referenced than _"100 more things to do in a wormhole"_. In many of the more theocratic societies across the southern belt of the universe, it has even come to surpass the _"Encyclopaedia Galactica" _as the standard repository of knowledge, which has been widely disputed as a dumb move, as the disclaimer on the back clearly states that almost all advice contained within The Book is at best inaccurate and at worst allegorical.

However, it does score over the older, more pedestrian "Encyclopaedia Galactica" on two levels; first, it is substantially more published and therefore cheaper (some people have taken to leaving them lying around rather than bothering to transport them, meaning you can find at least three in any room at any hyperport hotel), and second, it has the words "You are Loved" written in arcing, authoritative script on the front cover (and let's face it, it's hard to argue with something in that sort of script).

This book ('The Book') is the most well used, most well reputed book in the history of published words, with a version or translation of one edition or another on even the most primitive, under-evolved of planets in every galaxy.

This book is "_The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment"._

To tell the story of The Book, we must tell the story of a man. This man (human,_ Homo Sapiens_ of the planet 'Earth') currently has no more understanding of his destiny than the most poorly constructed apple pie does of its cultural saturation in English speaking nations, nor the symbolism attached to it through its appearance in various media.

His name is Dean Winchester. He is thirty two years old, and he has just gotten fired from his job as a director of sales and marketing. To top it all off, he has come home to find that his girlfriend has not only left him, but taken the front door keys with her.

"Shit… Son of a…" Dean debated his options concerning breaking into his own house, aiming a kick at the box of possessions he had been forced to evacuate the office building with. Dejected, he phoned his landlord.

"I'm a busy man, Dean…" Zachariah was not a pleasant man to deal with, even over the phone.

"Lisa's run out on me and taken the keys with her. Can you swing by with a spare?"

"Left you?" Zachariah's laugh sliced into Dean's brain. He should have guessed his landlord would use this to get his sadistic kicks. "Oh dear, what happened?" He asked with delight, not concern.

"She's been fooling around with some other guy, I told her to either break it off or get the hell out of my house. I guess she took option B."

Zachariah laughed again, which did little to improve Dean's mood.

"You really expected her to stay?"

"I thought it was… whatever, why am I telling you?"

"Oh come on, Dean. You've got no desire at all to spill your guts for me?"

The sadistic barb to Zachariah's voice made Dean flinch.

"None at all."

(-*-)

By curious coincidence, "None at all" was precisely how much of a clue Dean had that his close friend and (now ex-) co-worker Balthazar Angel was not, in fact, a human being at all, and nor was he from the inconspicuous British town of Guildford. Balthazar was, in fact, an intergalactic reporter from a small moon somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and his job as a reporter was currently very much on the line.

It was with that in mind that he was incredibly glad to find Dean at home in the middle of the day.

"Dean! Thank goodness you're here. You need to come with me."

"Yeah, in a minute, Balthazar, I have to wait for my landlord to…"

"No, you need to come with me, now. I have something very important to tell you and it is vitally important that I tell you in… that bar over there."

"It's two in the afternoon."

"Yes. But judging by the box of your possessions and the fact that you are sat outside of your house, I am guessing you won't turn down a beer or three."

Dean was sorely tempted.

"No, man, I have to wait for my spare key. I can't just leave my stuff on the street…"

"Oh, but you can." Balthazar grabbed Dean's arm and dragged him over to the bar that sat on the corner of the block.

"If it's not there when we get back…"

"The whole street might not be there when we get back."

"What?"

"Nothing. Come on, I need a drink."

The _"Encyclopaedia Galactica" _describes alcohol as a liquid often imbibed by carbon based life-forms for the sake of intoxication, usually brewed or distilled. The Book describes alcohol as the reason carbon based life-forms are usually more fun, and recommends it as a must-have for any social interaction more stressful than, say, meeting one or more estranged relatives.

Balthazar knew that this was far more stressful.

(-*-)

High above the blue-green surface of the planet, disastrous black somethings hung. They hung, floating noiselessly through the sky, while being so incredibly big and bulky looking that the casual observer would be quite sure that "hanging", "floating" and "noiseless" were three words that most definitely shouldn't apply, suggesting that they were just so hideous that Physics had decided it wanted nothing to do with them. The disastrous black somethings collectively didn't give a shit about physics or the hypothetical casual observer. They moved silently around the blue-green marble, and waited.

(-*-)

Balthazar sat at the bar with Dean, six beers between them and the barman instructed to keep the coming.

"Dude, you got money to burn?" Dean watched Balthazar warily. Balthazar was prone to odd moods and strange decisions, and he'd frankly had enough "unusual" for one day.

"I have recently been informed that the U.S. dollar will take something of a dive… of course, so will every other currency on the planet…"

"Balthazar?"

"Dean." Balthazar pushed Dean's beer nearer his hand, before taking his own. "How long have we known each other now?"

"I don't know… two years? Three?"

"Right. So it would be fair to say that, at this point in time, we are rather firm friends."

"Yes…" There were many ways this could go, and Dean wasn't sure he liked any of them.

"How would you react if I were to tell you that I'm not from Guildford, or indeed from anywhere in England at all, or, even more indeed, from Earth?"

"I… have no idea. Why, is it something you think you're going to tell me?"

"I'm an alien, Dean. I came from the sky to stay on this planet and write a review of it."

Dean stared at Balthazar like he'd just grown another head.

"Right…"

"I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but I've received word today that your planet is going to be destroyed, and, well, the thought of you being totally immolated isn't one I'm comfortable with, so I thought I'd offer you the chance to jump ship with me."

"Yeah." Dean nodded, knocking back what was left of his beer. "Ok. Whatever. I'm going home."

"Dean…" Balthazar emptied his wallet on the bar, and ran after Dean. "Look, I don't know what else I can do to convince you…"

Dean was not a happy human as he pushed his way through the crowds of people who were all suddenly in his way. Everyone was just stood still, muttering to each other, and he wished they'd do their goddamned muttering someplace else when he was trying to storm dramatically down the street. Humans have something of a tendency for displaying their emotions through dramatics, and The Book tells us that they often need a fair amount of space to do this. Humans are funny about space.

Dean continued ignoring Balthazar as he continued trying to storm down the street.

That was when he saw it.

A bunch of teenage kids stood on his car. Actually standing on his car.

What the hell? Dean ran towards them, bumping and jostling through the small clumps of people. He was about to reach the car when he tripped over the box of his possessions from the office, and landed flat on his back. Winded, he groaned and clutched his head. He blinked his eyes open and stared up at the sky.

Or, to be more accurate, he stared up at the hideous black something that hung perilously in the sky, and suddenly understood what an ant felt when he read the word "converse" as it rapidly descended over him.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean managed to mutter, as Balthazar dragged him to his feet.

"Hold on." Balthazar grabbed Dean around the shoulders, grinning madly. "Bend your knees. The beer should have helped relax your muscles. Close your eyes and hold on." Balthazar gripped Dean's shoulders tight and extended his free arm…

(-*-)

All over the world, from some hideous, hyper-dimensional speaker system, came a voice.

"People of Earth. Good afternoon. This is Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley of the Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force. We have been contracted to inform you that your planet is currently surplus to requirement, and for that reason I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go. It's no good crying about it, this hurts me as much as it hurts you, so on and so forth. Now, if you would all please just hold still for a moment…"

The hyper-dimensional speaker system went silent. As the meaning of Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley's words filtered through the unbelieving brains of the world's populace, everyone suddenly began to realise this was probably something they should make a fuss about.

And fuss they did.

People screamed, wailed, wept, attempted to reason, to threaten, but the hideous black somethings or, as they were now identified, Rahptoor spaceships, paid them no heed. Great beams of light and energy tore through the planet like pens through a sheet of paper, brining a terrible roaring shriek to join the screams and wails.

Then, the Rahptoor spaceships stopped, and floated away as quietly as they had come, leaving nothing but a few wisps of what had once been referred to as "ozone".

Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley ticked a box on a rather complicated pink form.

(-*-)

On the other end of the galaxy, the Prime Minister of the Universe smiled and waved to the crowd of scientists, engineers and reporters, a smug grin firmly in place.

The "_Encyclopaedia Galactica" _tells us that the title "Prime Minister of the Universe" is a somewhat redundant one, as the Prime Minister called pretty much all the shots and acted as a President. However, the last King of the Universe (His Most Emphatic Majesty, King D'Nadam the fourth) made sure his last official ruling on his death bed was to be placed under eternal medical care in a time-suspension coma, and in that way he could never be killed or impeached. People have tried to fight it (on the basis that the medical bills alone have decreased standards of living throughout the entire universe) but as he was, or, is, King of the Universe, there's not very much you can say against it.

The Book tells us that the Prime Minister of the universe is usually one of nine different kinds of "completely unsuitable for the job", but that did mean that they usually threw the most memorable if not enjoyable of parties.

Prime Minister Gabriel Angeles was incredibly unsuitable, also inappropriate, unfaithful, dishonest, didactic, egocentric and ever so slightly drunk. As he continued to smile and wave at the assorted crowd, he reasoned that he'd need to be, for what he was planning.

"Hey, how are we all? Brilliant, lovely…" He approached the microphone, one hand in his pocket as he delivered his speech. He shot a wink down into the crowd at a black-haired, blue-eyed humanoid, who was not impressed.

"Right." Gabriel continued, with a dazzling smile. "I have been asked to come here and say a few words on the unveiling of this revolutionary new ship. The Impala is a beautiful design; sleeker, more efficient, faster… a feat of the best engineering minds the universe can produce. And look at that paintwork, huh? But the real talent, the real killer, is that sexy little Soul Drive you kids threw together. Leap Of Faith warp drive promises to leave all probable and improbable propulsion drives in the dust. But hey, look who I'm telling."

He shot another winning smile around the crowd.

"So yes, I was asked to come here and say a few words. But… I don't want to do that." He looked down, and saw that the black-haired blue-eyed humanoid was no longer in the crowd. He shrugged, shooting a slightly less winning, slightly more wicked smile.

"I'd much rather steal it instead."

His hand flew out of his pocket, propelling an Insta-Freeze grenade into the crowd. Screams were cut off almost before they'd begun. In the resultant frozen still, Gabriel plucked the keys from the hands of the head engineer and commandeered his new ship.

(-*-)

The insides of a Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force Ship were something only the most masochistic of beings would ever complain about not seeing. The servant sleeping quarters were squalid, dark and mouldy, while the main Dæmon portion of the ship was terrifying, purely because it was full of naturally disgruntled Dæmons. Common sense told you never to get on board a Dæmon ship, and it was reasonable to presume that, if you were on board one, things had gotten pretty damn bad already. In fact, the only way it could be worse would be if you were suffering from some incessant yet ultimately not debilitating pain.

"Balthazar." Dean groaned, as consciousness slowly returned to him. "What just happened? And speak slowly, I have a killer headache."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: I'm glad so many people are enjoying this, but seriously, if you haven't read/listened to the book/radio play of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, you really should, because it's a classic piece of sci-fi-comedy. Don't watch the movie, though. The movie was wildly inaccurate and we don't speak of it.**

**EDIT: Due to internet problems, this took way longer than usual to get updated. So, by way of recompense, have a longer than usual chapter!**

**(-*-)**

Deep in the uncharted backwaters of space, at the unfashionable end of the Universe, lies a small, mostly uninteresting yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety million miles is a planet known (or rather, that was known as,) Earth.

Earth is, or was, an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet, whose ape-descended life forms are so shockingly primitive that they still think polyphonic ringtones are a 'cool idea'.

This planet has, or had, a problem, which was this; most of the ape-descended life forms were pretty unhappy for most of the time _(for remedies for cultural depression, see entry: Alcohol)_. Of the many solutions suggested for the problem _(see entries: Alcohol, Arts, Drugs [legal], Drugs [non-legal], Entertainment, Faith, Food, Meditation, Music, and Pictures of Baby Animals with Humorous Captions Underneath Them)_, most were presupposed by the movements of small green pieces of paper. This didn't really work, mostly because people became so obsessed with the small green pieces of paper that they were even less happy than they were before, and partly because it wasn't the small green pieces of paper which were unhappy in the first place.

The problem remained, and it drove many people to be mean and miserable (even the ones with polyphonic ringtones or small green pieces of paper; having one seemed to prevent you from having the other). Many were increasingly of the opinion that they'd made a big mistake coming down from the trees in the first place.

The most recent entry for the planet Earth, listed roughly 2040 years before its demolition (in Earth years), read "Harmless". The reporter responsible for this entry was one Gabriel Angeles (currently Prime Minister of the Universe), who was promptly fired on his return to the Megadodo Publishing Corporation, for (a) wasting company funds, and (b) interfering with the blossoming civilisation of an underdeveloped planet. His defence was that, if they were going to herald him as a messenger from their God, they were really inviting him to interfere.

His further defence was that, if he got some girl pregnant while letting her believe he was the messenger of their God, that wasn't exactly his fault, and the planet was 'harmless' anyway so what was everyone's problem?

Roughly twenty-seven Earth years later, the resultant offspring was nailed to a tree for suggesting people be nice to each other for a change.

"Being nice to each other for a change" became the reason for some of the bloodiest wars the planet had ever seen, which was why Balthazar Angel was not in the least sorry to be rid of the Earth after ten years of being accidentally stranded there. He was, however, sorry to come to and find himself in the rather messy hold of a Rahptoor space ship. Minion quarters, thankfully, but that was rather like saying "don't worry; this is just a baby lion/suntiger/bugblatter beast of Traal_._ It won't be big enough to eat you for two days yet".

Balthazar looked down at his travelling companion, who was currently pale and bleary.

"Don't worry, Dean. You've just been through your first matter-transference beam; you're bound to be a little shaken. Now, come on. We need to find you a few things."

"Balthazar…" Dean remained on the floor for a while, as he tried to remember how to differentiate between 'up' and 'down'. "Where am I?"

"You're on board one of the Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force ships. You remember? With the Dæmons? Who blew up your planet?"

Dean groaned. Balthazar took it as a yes.

"So you're really an alien?"

"Yes."

"And the Earth is gone?"

"Yes."

"My home is gone… my job, my life… my car…"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad. Now come on." Balthazar grabbed Dean's hand and pulled him to his feet.

"But, I can't… I don't… what do I do?"

"Well, in the long term, you come along with me and see why I always found Earth parties so boring. In the short term, we find you some supplies and we stay very, very quiet."

"But… can I not get a minute to just deal with that?" Dean cast around, worried for a moment that he might pass out. "I mean… I got fired, I got dumped, and my planet got destroyed all on the same day. I need some time to adjust."

"You got dumped?" Balthazar looked at him for a moment, half curious and only slightly concerned. "I thought you were with… what's-her-face. Lisa."

"She had another guy. I told her if she didn't break it off, she could leave." Dean had almost forgotten about that. It was oddly sad, knowing he would never, ever see her again. Balthazar rested a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You honestly thought she'd stay?"

Dean scowled at him.

Balthazar flashed Dean a smile that utterly failed to reassure, before darting behind him to rows of cabinets on the wall. Dean took in his surroundings for the first time, and realised they were in something that greatly resembled a student kitchen if it had been made by the BBC in the mid seventies.

"Yuck."

"Yes," Balthazar agreed, not looking up from where he rummaged through cupboards. "The Dæmon servants aren't much for interior décor, but they're fundamentally useful in tight scrapes like the one we just got out of."

Dean was not impressed. As a child, he'd often thought about space, as every growing boy did, and he was rather disappointed to see that this was what a spaceship looked like.

Holy crap, he was on a space ship.

"Balthazar, how did we get here?"  
>"We hitched a ride." Balthazar smiled, returning to Dean with his hands full of objects, which he dumped on the floor, before opening his satchel.<p>

"We hitched?" This was all getting way too weird for Dean. "What, you just stuck out your thumb, and some bug eyed green man said "Hey there guys, can only get you as far as the interstate but climb on in"?"

"Well, the 'thumb' is a sub-ether portable jamming signal, the interstate is Alpha Centauri, and the bug eyed man is really more of a greyish-teal than green, but essentially, yes."

"Right." Dean nodded. He took a deep breath. He could deal with this. He had to deal with this. Yes, his planet had been destroyed, yes, he would never see any of his friends or family again, and yes, he appeared to be on the space ship of the things that destroyed his planet in the first place. That was a lot to take in, but he was a director of sales and marketing. He thought on his feet, and as long as no other surprises cropped up, he'd be fine.

Balthazar motioned to his findings, as he put them all in a black holdall which he handed to Dean.

"I have here a lighter, a towel, a pen knife, and this fish, which I'll need you to put in your ear."

Dean was not fine.

"Eurgh! Dude, get that thing away from me…"

"Keep your voice down!" Balthazar hissed, waggling the small, flapping fish in Dean's face. "Trust me, this isn't hazing the newbie, you'll need this fish."

At which point a horrible screeching roar crackled from the ship's PA. Dean gaped, and was about to ask Balthazar what the noise was, when he felt a slap to the ear, then a horrible, wet wriggling inside it.

"Uuuugh…" Dean started, but then gasped as the screeching resolved into words.

"… _welcome. Message repeats: This is your Captain speaking. With Earth successfully 'Down-Sized', we return to Alpha Centauri in approximately twelve hours. All ship leave has been cancelled, because I bloody well felt like it, and if you have a problem, please don't hesitate to jettison yourself into deep space. Anyone going AWOL will of course be shot on sight... I have just received news that we have a couple of hitchhikers on board, so I'd just like to say to them: We have found the useless Minions who let you on. They have been tortured accordingly, and now the ship's guard have been dispatched to give you a similar welcome. Message ends."_

Dean stared at Balthazar, who sucked air in through his teeth.

"That's unfortunate."

"What was that?"

"The thing with the fish or what we just heard?" Balthazar rifled through his satchel, not looking up at Dean.

"Both. Either. Shit, I don't know, man, help me out here."

"The fish sits in your ear canal and translates everything for you subconsciously. After a while you won't even notice it."

"And the announcement?"

Balthazar produced something that looked oddly like an iPhone, except it had a plastic cover like the dustsheets you find on CDs or DVDs, which was sort of leathery, and emblazoned with a gold, authoritative script.

"'You are loved'…" Dean read, looking at Balthazar. "What is this?"

"It's a book. The Book. 'The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment'. The ultimate guide to living in the universe. That's my job, I report for it." Balthazar was still looking in his satchel. "Just… take the cover off, go to the index and look under Dæmons. It'll tell you everything you need to know."

Dean did as he was told, and saw the screen light up in front of him. It was like some sort of super-evolved Kindle. He found the entry, and was slightly startled to hear the book read along with him.

"_Daemons"_ it said. _"Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Dæmon: Check yourself into the nearest mental health facility as soon as possible, for the good of yourself and others around you. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy and, though as a supposedly unbiased report we cannot say they are evil, they are ruthless, sadistic, officious, merciless and also disturbingly, oddly likeable (which is when they are most dangerous). While some of the weaker members of the species, often referred to as Minions or Servants, will help out hitchhikers merely to score one over their superiors, it is widely advised that you do not try it. They have a fondness for torture which includes inflicting physical pain, raping, scarring, forcing you into an endless queue or (if you happen to be from a colony or race who enjoy upholding tedious social graces [see entry: Earth, English]), making you recite every awful poem, novel or script you wrote as a teenager."_

"Wow." Dean looked at Balthazar, who seemed to have finally found what he was looking for. It was a small silver band, which he slipped over his middle finger. "So the plan to not get hideously tortured is..?"

"Come with me." Balthazar gripped Dean's arm, and they walked quickly and quietly towards the door. "If we get a lung full of air, we can last for probably about 30 seconds, unprotected in Space."

"Ok, I know I'm new to this, but isn't that… I don't know, suicidal?"

"Well… look at it this way. Would you rather be near dead with a chance of surviving, or on their torture rack wishing you were dead?" Balthazar was unnervingly happy in the midst of all this, and Dean wondered if it wouldn't have been better to stay put and be snuffed out with the rest of the human race. Balthazar smiled at him.

"Have faith, Dean. This ring is a summoning beacon, which will hack into the teleport system of any ship within a certain radius. Hopefully, we should get picked up."

"Hopefully?"

"Have faith." He pressed a finger to his lips, before opening the door. They crept down the mercifully empty corridor, and had just gotten to the airlock when a booming voice resonated towards them.

"Stop! Hitchhikers spotted by airlock 4!"

Balthazar grimaced as the bulky figure with grey skin and black eyes barrelled down the corridor towards them.

"No time for space-suits. We have to go now, if we're going."

Dean stared from the rapidly advancing figure to the frantic Balthazar. He nodded.

"Ok."

Balthazar's fist slammed down on the "jettison" button, and Dean took a deep breath as he felt himself get pulled into the vacuum of space.

The _"Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment"_ has this to say on the subject of space:

"_It's big. Really, really big. You know how, when you go to a restaurant and order your food, it always comes out bigger than you'd expected? Yeah, it's several quojillion times that. Listen…"_

And so it continues, fully reinforcing the belief that many reports for the Book are filed while drunk, tired, or most likely both, but not all entries are like that.

Some tell you things that are interesting, such as the history of the settlements in the untamed, rugged western arm of the galaxy, in particular the trials of terra-forming such beautiful planets as Miranda. Some tell you things which are useful, such as the difference between electromagnetism and geophysics, or the mindboggling essentiality of a common lighter. Some are, admittedly, depressing. For example, the entry that addresses the issue of dying of asphyxiation thirty seconds after being hurled out of the airlock of a spaceship, which lists the odds against any ship being close enough to find and rescue you as two to the power of two hundred and sixty seven thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against.

Which, by an astronomical coincidence, was also the phone number of a community centre in which Dean once attended a yoga class and met an extremely attractive instructor, but never went to again as he got food poisoning from the cafeteria, and by the time he was well enough, the place had shut down.

Although the planet Earth, the community centre and the offending fruit parfait are, of course, no more, it is comforting to think that they were all somehow commemorated in the action of Dean taking such a massive leap of faith.

(-*-)

Due to its reporters travelling mostly by hitchhiking, The Book revises its editions on a day to day basis; entries are submitted as and when the reporter can find a spare moment, which in a lot of cases means that the reporter could be writing whilst on the wrong planet or, more and more frequently, in the wrong time _(See entry: Time Travel)_. This has created such logical paradoxes where people responsible for the creation of such and such a thing had no thoughts on the matter until after getting rather drunk and plugging their name into The Book's index, to see what comes up. The most famous instance of this is (was, or will be) the Leap of Faith drive, a fantastic new technology which never would have existed if a group of Theological Engineering students hadn't done exactly that.

For years, engineers had struggled to move out of the primitive Probability Drive, and (bar a brief experimentation with Bistromathics,) it was not until the creation of the Improbability drive that they managed to do so. It was groundbreaking. It was revolutionary. It rendered any further research into the field of engineering utterly obsolete. Students across the universe bemoaned the fate of their now useless certifications and, in a time honoured tradition, got blind stinking drunk.

It was then that Quaze Quordon and his classmates got bored, and threw their names into an old copy of The Book they had found under someone's fridge. They were amazed to read that (in an entry that had been submitted five years from that very day,) Quaze spent (or would spend) the next four years saving and finding investors, before building the groundbreaking Leap of Faith drive.

The entry was scant on details, and so Quaze spent a year puzzling over exactly how it would work. Half the numbers he used were made up, and most of the decisions he made were based on assumption and gut instinct, but after four years of piling debt on top of his student loan, he took the initial Leap of Faith and turned on his new engine. To his surprise, and his bank's relief, it worked. And the rest, as they say, is future history.

(-*-)

Dean had left the planet Earth approximately fifteen minutes ago, and he was already sick and tired of waking up on the decks of unknown spaceships with a splitting headache. As he regained a sense of his surroundings, however, he was pleased to see that he was in something a little more like the spaceships he had imagined. Sleek, shining white panels with light metal floors and lots of automated buttons and systems.

He looked across at Balthazar, who seemed pleasantly surprised.

"So… that worked rather well, I feel."

(-*-)

On the bridge of the Impala, Gabriel swivelled in his chair.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Yeah?" The black haired humanoid with ice-blue eyes looked over from his position by the control panel.

"What's this on the readout screen about hitchhikers?"

"What hitchhikers?"

"The ones we just picked up."

"Oh." Cas nodded. "Them. They're probably just a couple of hitchhikers."

Gabriel glared at his semi-cousin, wondering exactly which three mothers they shared, and exactly how to take them out.

"No shit. I mean 'why' did we pick them up? We're being pursued by the cops here. Ok, so charity's in style, and this is a lot less work than adopting a child, but still, you're losing points for good thinking."

"I didn't pick them up." Cas yawned, wandering towards the door. "The ship did. Or, they picked themselves up. They hacked the teleportation system. That's how Leap of Faith drive works; you pass through every point in the universe almost simultaneously, holding it in faith that you'll stop where you need to be. Or, you know, whatever you need will be summoned to you. Apparently, we needed to help those two guys."

Gabriel was not impressed, but knew that arguing with Cas about quantum physics and engineering was not a smart move, so he let Cas wander off wherever he was wandering. Probably to get another hit from the ship's sick bay; damn junkie.

"Hmm… Sam?"

In the dingiest, darkest corner of the otherwise well-lit bridge, a hulking metal figure dragged itself to its feet. A computer-like whirring accompanied the start up. Sam the Sarcastic Cyborg turned his sleek, titanium face towards Gabriel.

"What?"

"Got a couple of hitchhikers in teleportation bay five. Can you bring them up here?"

"'_Can I bring them up here'_?" Sam repeated, his facial plates reconfiguring into the "bitchface" sequence. "Don't undermine my intelligence or anything, Gabriel. That's fine. I mean, hey, I'm just a super-intelligent cyborg with a brain the size of the planet, so thanks for not taxing my intelligence."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Sam the cyborg.

"Yes, Sam, you're very clever. You also wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me downloading your consciousness into that robot body, so shut up and ship out."

Sam sighed, but clanked away to teleportation bay five, his polished metal body glinting in the shining overhead light. Gabriel sighed.

"Ugh. What are you supposed to do with a manically depressed ex-human?"

"You think you've got problems?" Sam shot back, not bothering to turn around. "What are you supposed to do if you _are_ a manically depressed ex-human?"

"Get!" Gabriel threw a balled up piece of paper at Sam's retreating back, before heaving another sigh.

(-*-)

The '_Encyclopaedia Galactica'_ defines a robot as "an automated device designed to do the work of a man". The marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation defines a robot as "your plastic pal who's fun to be with". Gabriel Angeles defined a robot as "a neat toy, if you can live with the Genuine Personality Programming the jerks at Sirius Cybernetics thought it would be a good idea to introduce".

Genuine Personality Programming, or "G.P.P." is the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's attempt at giving each robot they produce a sense of personality, and make them more likeable and easier for the consumer to relate to (an idea which was doomed from the outset, as no one in the marketing department of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has a personality, is likeable or is easy for consumers to relate to). This is a fine idea in theory; a door which assures you the room on the other side is full of people you want to see, an entertainment system which reminds you that you've already seen this episode, a vacuum –bot which thanks you for dropping biscuit crumbs, but next time, could you get the cheesy ones because it really prefers those, and so on.

However, it runs into problems when applied to real life, because most of the time, organic beings do not wish to converse on the benefits of their actions with their electronic equipment, they just want to get it done, and anything that stands in their way is at best irksome. Many of the G.P.P. naysayers point out that we should really expect nothing more, given the newly elected president of the marketing division of Sirius Cybernetics; beings which greatly resemble paperclips with googly eyes are rarely lauded for forward thinking.

(-*-)

Gabriel tapped at the controls on the bridge, wishing Cas would hurry up and get back from wherever he'd gone, so that he'd have something to distract him from his burgeoning curiosity.

He continued tapping half heartedly at the controls, attempting to be patient and not letting his curiosity get the better of him.

"Computer?"

It got the better of him.

The ship's computer whirred into life, and an automated voice groaned out of the speakers.

"What now?"

Gabriel was starting to wish he hadn't stolen the ship. Awesome as it was (and boy, was it), the cybernetics were unbalanced to say the least. Damned G.P.P.

"I have a job for you, if that's not too much to ask."

"I have a name, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, doesn't mean I care. Can you bring up the security feed for teleportation bay five on the vision screen?"

"Of course I can." Bobby the ship-board computer sighed irritably. "I'm the goddamn intelligence core of the ship, idjit, I can bring up any feed I like."

The security feed appeared on the vision screen, and Gabriel grinned as he recognised one of the two figures currently snooping around the bay. He had about five minutes to figure out where on the bridge would be the most nonchalant place to be discovered in.

(-*-)

Dean and Balthazar stood in the teleportation bay, marvelling at the clean, shining interiors of the ship.

"Now this is what a space ship is supposed to look like." Dean smiled, feeling back in, at the very least, the realm of his wildest fantasies.

"I think it's brand new."

"How can you tell?"

"Well, the metal has yet to oxidise into any set pattern, the sidings are all still precise to the millimetre…"

"You can tell all that?"

"No, I'm just kidding. The seats over there still have plastic wrapping on them." Balthazar started poking around, curious. "This is a fancy ship…"

Dean glanced around at the flashing control panel to his left, enticed by the blinking lights. He saw one fat, red button, not dissimilar to a cigarette lighter in a car. It read _"do not press"._

"What happens if I press this button?"

"Don't!"

"Oops…" Dean withdrew his hand, and saw that where it had read "do not press", it now read _"what did I just say?"_ Dean decided he wouldn't press the button again.

"This is a really fancy ship." Balthazar nodded, looking over Dean's shoulder. "I bet is has its own cybernetics system and everything."

A door behind them hummed contentedly as it slid open, to reveal a shining metal man, at least seven foot tall, hunched over in the doorway.

"It does, and it's awful." The robot sighed, glaring at them analytically.

"What?" Dean tried, his brain still processing the humanoid robot walking over to them,

"It's all god-awful. I mean, look at this." He pointed to the control panel by Dean. "That's the shipboard entertainment system. When I switch it on, it will ask me what I want to listen to, and then debate with me for ten minutes about whether the band's earlier or later stuff was better, talking over most of the song. Then, when I request another song, it will tell me that it would much rather I listen to something more upbeat and start making requests for me to request."

The robot shot the control panel a withering glare. Dean looked to Balthazar, silently asking if all robots were this uncomfortably depressing. Balthazar looked back at Dean, silently answering that he was buggered if he knew.

"Like I said, god-awful. Anyway, I'm supposed to take you up to the bridge. Come on." The robot began to stalk off, his shoulders heavy. Dean and Balthazar followed.

"Here I am…" The robot moaned, "Brain the size of a small moon, and he asks me to take you to the bridge. Like I can't manage anything more taxing. That is not job satisfaction, you know?"

"Uh, yes, that's very interesting." Balthazar lied. "Sorry, but could you tell me who owns this ship?"

"Look at this." The robot turned to Dean, ignoring Balthazar. "See this door? When we go through it, it's going to try and bolster my spirits. Watch."

They went through the door. It hummed contentedly. A tinny voice issued as it closed again.

"Cheer up! It might never happen!"

"See?" The robot sighed. "It's so depressing."

"Well, it could be worse." Dean shrugged, finding himself oddly at home talking to the robot. "I'm sure there's an app for that."

The robot stopped still for a moment, threw back its head and laughed, staring at Dean.

"A human? Oh god, it's been years since I've seen another one of you!" He laughed some more, before clapping Dean on the back. "How is Earth?"

"Uh… demolished, actually." Dean said, the words still feeling a little weird to him. The robot stood perfectly still for another moment, before switching back into depressed mode.

"Oh god… that's… that's awful."

The robot stared sadly into space for a moment, prompting Dean to punch him on the arm. The metallic clang and the shot of pain that raced straight to his elbow made him really wish he hadn't.

"Yes…" Balthazar cleared his throat, edging into the conversation. "But about the ship..?"

"Are you ok, man?"

"No." The robot sighed, before resuming his mournful clanking. "All thanks the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics corporation. 'Let's make robots with Genuine Personality Programming', they said. Which works fine until you get someone like me; an organic consciousness downloaded into a machine's body."

The robot heaved a dramatic sigh, although Dean supposed it would have to be dramatic since it wasn't like the robot needed to breathe. He turned doleful, slightly triangular LED eyes to Dean.

"The GPP plays havoc with my emotions. And there's this pain in all the diodes down my left hand side…"

"Fascinating." Balthazar was fast losing patience. "But about the owner of this ship…"

"The ship doesn't have an owner." The robot snapped sarcastically, and resumed his angry plodding. "It's been stolen."

"Stolen?" Dean and Balthazar both hurried to catch up. "By who?"

"Gabriel Angeles."

Balthazar stopped dead, a curious lack of expression on his face.

"Gabr… did you just say Gabriel Angeles?"

"Read my lips." Sam snapped, before sighing. "Not that I have lips any more, now I'm stuck in this tin-can of a body, oh God, my life's a shithole. And here's another one of those stupid doors. Ugh." The robot sneered, stomping through. Dean watched him go, his brain trying desperately to process the five different kinds of crazy he'd just witnessed. He turned to Balthazar, who seemed to be having processing troubles of his own.

"Balthazar? Are you ok?"

"Really…" He laughed, the ever-so-slightly-manic smile returning to his features. "Gabriel Angeles…"


	3. Chapter 3

The Sub-ether radio jingled its way merrily into the news.

"Hey, Hi there and how are you, welcome to the around-the-clock, around the galaxy, Sub-Ether News Frequency. Remember, other frequencies may be more accurate, but no one else scares you shitless with such relentless passion!"

A choir and a forty-two piece orchestra played their way through the theme.

"I'm Trink Hogletter, and here is the latest news update. Our headline today is, of course, the frankly ludicrous theft of the new Leap of Faith drive prototype ship, the Impala 67, by none other than Gabriel Angeles. The question on everyone's minds; has the Gabey Babey finally freaked? Angeles, ex-Confidence trickster, booze-hound, philanderer, Prime Minister of the Universe and reputed by the intergalactic Union of Working Girls as "the origin of the phrase 'Clever Dick'." Can he talk his way out of this one? Has he lost his senses? We speak to his brain-care specialist, Ash Bahdas. Ash?"

"Gabriel?" The voice of Doctor Ash Bahdas waved over the speakers. "He's just a dude who wants to party, right?"

Castiel turned off the Sub-Ether radio. He already had to listen to Gabriel in person; he didn't think he could take people talking about Gabriel as well. It was good to know Ash was still alive though, and presumably living off the very large cheques Gabriel's various neuroses got him. Castiel made a note to go see him some time. He could be holding.

Castiel sighed, and rolled over on his bunk, staring at the small cage on his cupboard unit.

"You know guys, something doesn't work out."

The inhabitants of the cage squeaked at him, and went back to rolling around in sawdust. Castiel sniffed.

"Yeah, that's easy for you to say."

He poked another piece of rehydrated fruit through the bars of the cage and shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling he should wander back to the bridge and see how Gabriel the Fearless Captain was doing. Good to know that the guy who had set out to sample every mind-altering substance the universe had to offer was still more in control of the ship than the idiot that stole it.

Picking up the hitchhikers had presented more of a problem than he had initially thought; on deeper reflection, and some number-crunching, Castiel had realised that the odds of two people being picked up in space were big, but given the speed they were travelling at, it was nowhere near enough of a leap in faith to justify it. There was a large amount of blind hope unaccounted for.

As he got to the bridge, he found Gabriel lounging across the main console.

"Ok." Castiel smirked, throwing himself into the next chair. "I know why I'm out of it. Why are you?"

"Shh!" Gabriel hissed, flapping at him. "I'm trying to be nonchalant and cool. Just sit there and don't say anything."

"Yes, Captain." Castiel saluted, turning to the ship's controls. The bridge door slid open behind him.

"Balthazar." Gabriel sighed, with effortful laziness. "Hi."

"Gabriel." Balthazar breezed back, not to be outdone. "Nice ship you've stolen."

"Well. It gets me from A to B." Gabriel sniffed, disinterested. "Balthazar, you remember my little semi-cousin, Castiel."

"Of course he remembers me, Gabriel, I'm his brother. Balthazar, what were you doing out there?"

"Dæmons." Balthazar shrugged, waving sheepishly at his brother. "Rhaptoor Task Force. Nothing an intrepid reporter like me couldn't handle."

Castiel nodded, and pulled his brother into a brief hug. This would cover a lot of the missing blind faith, Castiel supposed, but it wasn't quite enough… Bitchbot 2.0 was still slumped in the doorway.

"Sam, what's the matter now?"

"Nothing, just finding out my home planet's been destroyed, that's all." Sam sighed. "I'm always the last to know these things. But don't mind the humans over here; I'll just rust quietly in the corner, shall I?"

Sam skulked off, under a weary glare from Gabriel, revealing a rather terrified young man in the doorway, just as Castiel was about to ask what Sam meant by "Humans". As the human spotted Castiel, Castiel blinked. Ah. That made up for the rest of the missing numbers.

"You!" Dean gaped, pointing at him. Castiel smiled, recognising him.

"Dean! Good to see you made it off Earth."

"But… you…"

Balthazar raised his hand.

"Sorry, sorry. Dean, this is Castiel, my brother, and Gabriel, my semi-cousin. We…"

"I know."

"I… what?"

"We've met. They fleeced me out of a three month yoga membership, and then they gave me food poisoning."

"That was more his idea than mine." Castiel carried on smiling, jerking his thumb at Gabriel. "Sorry all the same."

Balthazar looked around for a moment, stunned.

"You mean you've been on that miserable little marble? I've been stuck there for ten years, and you didn't even swing by to say hi?"

"We tried…" Gabriel protested. "But… you know, stuff got in the way, and then we had to make a hasty exit. You know what the cops are like."

"Unbelievable." Balthazar scowled, glaring at his relatives. "Unbelievable."

"Aww, I'm sorry, Balthazar." Castiel grinned at him. "Would it make it better if we let you drive for a bit?"

"Hey!" Gabriel stood. "I'm the captain; I'm the only one who gets to drive. Now… Castiel, is this going to happen every time we use Leap of Faith drive?"

"Most likely."

"Oh, joy. So we've got two ex-cons on the run, one recently un-exiled reporter and one… monkey."

"Hey!" Dean started, but Gabriel wasn't listening.

"Sam! I need a drink."

(-*-)

Way back in the ancient mists of time (somewhere after "In the beginning, there was nothing" and before "long long ago, in a galaxy far away"), in the days of the Pan-Galactic Empire, life was wild, free and on the whole rather more inspiring. In those days, men were real men and women were real women, as holographic cloning technology was primitive. The stakes were high, the taxes were low, and it was every crew for themselves in a bid to tame the untameable and make profit. Many people became quite rich, which was perfectly acceptable, as no one was really poor, just slightly less comfortable.

With such wealth, however, came a sense of entitlement and taste; the settlers found themselves unsatisfied with the planets they found. The temperature was wrong, the days were too long, or the sea was too far to the left. Out of this need grew an amazing new industry; custom made planets. The industry grew out of the desert planet Krippketha, where workers toiled to create special, customised dream worlds to the exacting standards of their patrons. The industry flourished.

Then, following an incident with universal banking systems, the economy collapsed, and Krippketha was unable to continue its' costly business. The desert planet was once again still, and tales of the fallen Empire fell into the realm of myth. These days, in our more enlightened times, no one believes it.

Speaking of which…

"Unbelievable." Balthazar shook his head as he leant against the control panel.

"You're using that word a lot lately." Gabriel glared at him. "Did being on Earth give you brain damage?"

"It's a myth!" Balthazar snapped, before turning to Dean. "Don't believe him, Krippketha does not exist. It's a con."

"Me? Con?" Gabriel tried for innocence, but no one was impressed. "Alright, so in the past I've been less than honest, but this is it, Balthazar. The big "it". I am full of awe and hope…"

"You're full of something, alright." Balthazar scowled, before imploring his brother. "Castiel. You can't honestly believe his fairy stories, can you?"

Castiel shrugged, giving him a happy smile.

"Hey, the state I'm in right now, I could be imagining all of you for all I know. Look, there's an easy way to solve it. Bobby!"

"Yeah, what?" The computer's voice circuits groaned into action.

"Could you please tell us which planet we are currently in orbit around?"

Bobby sighed.

"We are currently in orbit, at an altitude of three hundred miles, around the legendary planet of Krippketha. Lucky us…"

"Oh, that doesn't prove a thing." Balthazar scoffed, earning an angry growl from Bobby's processor.

"You saying I'm incorrect? Boy, I've been built to comprehend and track this ship as it passes through every point in the universe simultaneously. You think I can't name one lousy planet?"

"He has a point." Castiel smirked, before spinning around in his chair to look at Dean. "Are you alright? You're very quiet over there."

Dean had been content to let the conversation happen without him. He was still coping with the insanity of the last… what, half hour or so? He flashed a wan smile at Castiel.

"I'll be fine."

"Keep breathing, buddy, it'll make sense eventually."

Balthazar and Gabriel were still bickering about the identity of the planet below them, so Dean guessed it would be safe to ask.

"Cas?"

"Yeah?"

"You want to tell me what they're arguing about?"

"Oh." Castiel stood up, sidling over to lean against the wall next to Dean. "Well, the old legends are that Krippketha was, years and years ago, a planet that made other planets. I believe Earth had similar sort of myths… El Dorado and Atlanta?"

"Atlantis. Right. But those places aren't real."

"And neither, supposedly, is Krippketha. But Gabriel reckons he's found it."

"Ok… And we're going to land on it?"  
>"Yes."<p>

"Even though we don't know what it is or what might be down there."

"Yes."

Dean thought for a moment.

"Why are you on a spaceship?"

"I am afraid I'm not as human as I may have led you to believe." Castiel smiled. "Gabriel and I went to Earth in the hopes of lying low when a con went wrong. I really did want to teach yoga though, honest. I'm sorry you never came back for another lesson."

Dean nodded, his brow creased.

"I have this crazy feeling, like I'm supposed to say something. I mean, all the stuff that's happened to me today, I really should say something, but have no idea what."

Castiel shrugged.

"I usually go with "goosnargh"."

"Look." Balthazar held his hands up, causing Castiel and Dean to return their attention to the main argument. "Even if it is…"

"It is."

"No it isn't, but if it is, then it would have been dead for centuries! What could you possibly want from it?"

"Fame." Gabriel grinned. "Adventure. Really wild things."

"But there's nothing there!" Balthazar was fast beginning to get exasperated. A triumphant return to the life of interstellar travel, this was not. "Even if the myths are true, there can't have been anyone there for millenia! It's just some dried up, desert planet, Gabriel."

"It's real. I know it is."

"Ooh, drama." Dean muttered, before turning to Sam. "Hey, robot."

Sam turned his mournful faceplates to the only other surviving human consciousness in the universe. The look was far too bleak and with far too much perspective for Dean to be sympathetic.

"Is there any coffee on this boat?"

"Gee, Dean, real tactful. 'Hey, us living organisms get to eat, remember that, cyborg?'" Sam rolled is LED eyes, before resuming his sulk. "The DinerMatic machine in the corridor will see to all your nutrient based needs."

"Then that is where I will be." He made his way to the corridor.

"You sure you don't want t see how this bitter feud plays out?" Castiel grinned. Dean sighed.

"You know, I don't think I can bear the suspense."

(-*-)

DinerMatic nutrition vendor machines are another bright idea from the minds of the Sirius Cybernetic Corporation. It uses complex electromagnetic pulses to measure and diagnose the nutrition levels of the customer, thus delivering not necessarily what the customer wants, but what they need. Dean knew nothing of this, nor did he care.

All he knew was that the machine refused to give him a mug of coffee and a slice of apple pie. What it was giving him was a headache, a poor introduction to the advanced robotic technologies the universe had to offer and, most importantly, a steaming cup of something which was very nearly entirely inedible.

"Listen to me, you hunk of crap. I asked you if you could make coffee, right?"

"Correct." The machine chirped.

"And I asked you if you could make pie, right?"  
>"Correct."<p>

"And you said that you could. Right?"

"Correct."

"So what the hell is this?"

"Nutritional supplement, tailor-made to suit your own dietary requirements."

"Dude, my diet wouldn't require this if I was a suicidal bulimic. Look, I've had a very long, very trying day, and I just want some java and some comfort food."

"If you like our DinerMatic services, why not join our social network?"

"The only reason I would "follow" you would be to push you off the edge. Now come on! I want coffee and pie."

"Coffee and pie are not nutritionally sound…"

"I don't want to be nutritionally sound, I want pie."

The machine whirred for a moment.

"Pie is… not nutritionally sound…"

"I know." Dean growled, trying to remain calm. "Look, please. Just give me what I want, I can go my way, and we can never see each other again."

"Logical error." The DinerMatic whirred, sounding quite lost and confused. "Why does the human reject proper nutritional sustenance?"

"Comfort food!" Dean sighed. "Don't you know what comfort food is?"

The machine thought for a moment.

"Request unknown." It admitted. Dean, with a healthily detached sense of how utterly bizarre it was, sat down next to the DinerMatic and began to explain the human habit of eating foods heavy in saturated fats or sugars when upset or stressed. He explained the cultural significance placed on food and feeding from childbirth, and the archetypal symbolism placed behind apple pie, not to mention the ongoing push and pull between the American and English claims to ownership of the recipe, delving into the little culinary history he knew about pie.

After he'd finished, the DinerMatic whirred for a moment.

"I see."

"You do?"

"Humans require food which is not nutritionally sound, as combinations of fats and sugars not only trigger endorphin release, but also stir sense memory."

"Uh… yeah."

The machine whirred.

"It goes against my central programming. It will require some extra processing time."

"Ok."

"I'm not sure… Requesting information transfer from ship's central intelligence."

"Yeah." Bobby's voice crackled out of nearby speakers. "I heard. I gotta say, it's a tricky one."

"Well, you guys think on that." Dean sighed. He'd had enough; he would take his chances with the aliens. As he got onto the bridge, the flashing lights and klaxons suggested maybe he should go sit in a dark room with a towel over his eyes for a while.

"What's going on?"

"The ship triggered some ancient alarm system." Castiel shrugged, his hands flying over the controls. For a stoner, he seemed to have an amazing comprehension of the ship's technology.

"It's something left behind from the old days." Gabriel sneered. "We carry on."

"Picking up a recorded transmission from the planet." Castiel blinked up at Gabriel. "Play it?"

"Play it."

On the visi-screens, the recorded transmission manifested itself into an animation, with soft gradients and line shading, which dragged Dean's mind towards the animation of a young Terry Gilliam, and was about to say as much, when he realised that the few people who would have understood the reference would not have cared.

"Greetings." The animation played, showing images of a planet spinning, and a smartly dressed man stepping out from behind it. "We on the industry planet of Krippketha…"

"Ha!" Said Gabriel, and Balthazar grumbled. The recording continued.

"… would like to thank you for your interest in our services. However, I'm afraid we must inform you that the entire planet is regretfully closed for business. Take heart that when we reopen, announcements will be placed in the appropriate popular information services. Thank you, and safe journey." The man in the animation smiled, and hopped back behind the planet. Castiel looked at Gabriel, who seemed momentarily stunned.

"Wow." He turned wide, shocked eyes to Balthazar. "I… was right! There's totally something valuable down there!"

"What do we do?"

"Keep going."

"They seem pretty eager to get rid of us…"

"Keep going." Gabriel's eyes flashed menacingly. Castiel turned back to the controls.

After a while, a similar animation popped onto the visi-screen. This time, the animated man seemed a little less happy, and his tone was definitely cold.

"We would like to assure you that we are merely closed until the universe has a net worth high enough to afford our services, and as soon as it does we will be once more open for business. Until such a time, however, we request that you leave the premises. Thank you. Safe journey."

"They…" Dean cleared his throat, noticing the tension that had appeared in the room. "They really don't sound like they want us there. Maybe we should…"

"It's just a recording." Gabriel hissed. "Carry on."

Castiel and Balthazar exchanged looks, but didn't say anything. They carried on.

The animation popped up again. The cartoon world was not spinning merrily. The cartoon man looked very, very annoyed.

"Your unabated enthusiasm is both flattering and reassuring. For that reason, we would like to reassure you that the guided missiles currently locked on to your ship are a complimentary service. Thank you."

Everyone stared at Gabriel.

"So." Said Sam, to no one in particular. "We're all going to die. Isn't that just great?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: My thanks to everyone who's reading this story, and my apologies to anyone who knows what happens to the missiles in Hitchhiker's Guide. I just couldn't think of a good equivalent, I'm afraid, so this chapter is dedicated to the memory of the sperm whale and the bowl of petunias.**

(-*-)

"Ok…" Gabriel said, as the warning systems confirmed the presence of Krippkethan guided missiles attacking the ship.

"Ok." He said again, because he was really hoping an idea would come to him soon.

"Ok," he said, one last time, in a hopeless attempt to look together and cool under pressure. "We need to take evasive action. Castiel, move, I'm going to fly this thing."

"But, Gabriel…"

"No buts. Move."

After slight hesitation, Castiel stood up and let Gabriel get to the controls. Gabriel touched a button and the whole ship lurched violently. Gabriel looked around.

"What was that?"

"That was you forgetting that you don't know how to fly a spaceship." Castiel was still smirking, the severity of the situation clearly still making its way through the fog that surrounded his brain. "Bobby, can you get us away from here?"

"Well I would…" Bobby's gruff voice crackled through the speakers, sounding oddly distant, "but most of my processing space is taken up with another problem right now."

"Another problem?" Balthazar was incredulous. "What is more important than not dying right now?"

"Ask the human." Bobby sneered. "He's the one who confused the shit out of the DinerMatic. Now if you'll excuse me." Bobby excused himself. Everyone turned to glare at Dean.

"What?" Dean protested, really wishing this day would cut him a break already. "How the hell was I supposed to know this would happen?"

Gabriel muttered something along the lines of "under-evolved mud-monkey", and returned to the controls. The ship lurched violently again, and started taking on a much more downwards trajectory.

"Balthazar…" Gabriel battled against the controls. "I don't suppose you know how to fly this thing?"

"No."

"Crap."

"Let me." Castiel stood behind his semi-cousin, eyes darting over the various displays.

"Yeah, sure. I'm going to let a seasoned stoner pilot my new ship."

Several warning lights flashed on and off, angrily.

Castiel pushed his semi-cousin out of the way and began tugging gently at the controls, handling them with the firm calmness of an expert hand. The ship sailed around in a sharp circle, zipping between both missiles and swooping in low over the planet.

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?" Gabriel yelled, staring up at Castiel from the floor. Castiel didn't take his earth off of the visi-screens.

"GTA four…"

"What?"

"Oh." Balthazar helped Gabriel up. "It's an Earth thing. You see…"

"Don't care." Gabriel decided, running over to watch the visi-screens with Castiel. "Have we gotten rid of the missiles?"

"No, they're still after us." Castiel sucked in air through his teeth. "And we're too close to surface to do any serious aerobatics right now. I don't know how long I can stay ahead of them…"

"We're going to die, aren't we?" Sam sighed, setting everyone's teeth on edge. "No, knowing my luck, you'd all die and I'd just get blown up, and remain as a conscious limb or something. Or a disembodied head."

"Sam." Castiel barked from the controls. "Will you please shut up about your…" a horrible noise which sounded something like a giant trying to eat a tin-can sandwich reverberated through the ship, covering whatever Castiel said.

"What?" Gabriel asked. Castiel shook his head.

"I was just saying I don't want to hear anything about robot h…" Sirens wailed over the speakers, as Bobby's voice stirred again.

"Well, that other problem should be fixing itself right about now, but I'm going to go ahead and say it's too late to help here. Sorry boys; it's been a pleasure flying with you."

"Why don't we just hit this button?" Dean yelled over the screeching sirens. He pointed to a red button on the console.

"Ten seconds to impact."

"What?" Castiel yelled back. Dean pointed to the button.

"That's the Leap of Faith thing Balthazar said about, right? Why don't we just push it?"

"We can't…"

"Eight seconds to impact."

"Why not?"

Castiel thought for a moment, before turning to Balthazar and Gabriel, who were staring at the visi-screens with blank, mute terror.

"Six seconds to impact"

"Can anyone think of a reason why Dean shouldn't initiate Leap of Faith drive?"

"What?"

"I said…"

"Four seconds to impact."

"Can anyone think…"

"Two seconds to impact."  
>"Oh, son of a bitch." Dean snarled, slamming his fist on the Leap of Faith button.<p>

Meanwhile, out in the hall, the DinerMatic had been scanning its database of psychosomatic occurrences in carbon based life forms, and had finally come to an understanding that food heavy in saturated fats or sugars (in moderation) was indeed beneficial to the psychological states of species such as humans. Content in the knowledge that it would not be contradicting its own primary function, the machine happily spat out a cup of coffee and an apple pie into the empty space of the corridor.

At the very moment Dean initiated the Leap of Faith drive, the ship began passing through every point in the galaxy and, at an improbability factor of two to the power of three million, eight hundred and twenty nine thousand, one hundred and thirty to one against, the pie slipped through an exhaust vent, flew through the air and landed squarely in the guidance controls of one of the missiles, causing it to malfunction and throw itself into the other missile. Dean had initiated the Leap of Faith at just the right moment, and blindly hoped to just the correct degree that it would help.

The Impala reappeared just in time to witness the explosion.

The crew of the Impala reacted in unison.

"Huh."

"Hey Earthman." Gabriel punched Dean on the arm. "Good thinking. You saved us all."

"Yeah…" Dean shrugged, smiling. "Don't mention it."

"Oh. Ok then."

"I… wait, what?"

"Cas, take us down somewhere safe. Sam, get to the captain's quarters. We need to have "thank god we're still alive" sex. Now. No one come look for me." Gabriel stomped off, followed by the depressed cyborg.

"I was…" Dean looked around, utterly lost. "What just happened?"

"Yeah." Castiel shrugged. "They do that. I probably should have mentioned it. Oh shit, I hope my mice are ok…" Castiel slapped on the autopilot and ran from the bridge. Dean turned to Balthazar.

"Has life always been this weird and I've just never noticed it?"

"Possibly." Balthazar sighed. "It was a Thursday, on Earth."

"Yeah…" Dean sighed. "What of it?"

"Nothing. Just, if this had happened on a Monday, I could have understood it. Nothing ever happens on Thursdays. Ah, well. Shall we find ourselves some drinks?"

"I've just found out the only other human in existence has been turned into a giant sex toy. I don't think I can drink enough."

"Gabriel and a manically depressed cyborg." Balthazar sighed, leading the way to the bar that hid at the back of the bridge. "I'm not sure who I feel more sorry for."

(-*-)

Gabriel Angeles features in several entries of the _Bloody Invaluable Book_, ranging from Prime Ministerial biography to his involvement as a Retroactive Missionary in the (perhaps rightfully) short-lived campaign for the "betterment of lesser developed times". Indeed, much has been written about Angeles (and a surprising amount of it autobiographical), but little has been written about his role in engineering the first true cyborg; a human consciousness in a robot body.

It had begun shortly after the Earth had entered its' twenty first century, when Gabriel had gone to the far-flung, overlooked planet in hopes of locating his semi-cousin Balthazar. Balthazar had gone to the Earth to write a report for the Book, and fallen out of contact. Gabriel had not found his semi-cousin, but had found himself rather hopelessly infatuated with a rather nice law student by the name of Sam. When the time came for Gabriel to give up on finding Balthazar and be dragged, kicking and screaming, back to his Prime Ministerial duties, he hit upon the idea of taking Sam with him. Together, Gabriel and his human saw the universe and made love to each other in ways neither had ever dreamed possible. All in all, they lived happily ever after… for about five years, at which point the various people Gabriel owed money to managed to kidnap the human and demand that Gabriel pay up for all the space ships, private hotels and custom made fluids that had facilitated the seeing of the universe and the "making love to each other in ways etc etc."

Gabriel was then faced with a dilemma; what with the phenomenal amounts of importing and exporting between planets, no one intergalactic currency was truly safe _(see entry: The Universe Top Trumps Figures)_ and could collapse and become obsolete at any moment. Gabriel needed to get a lot of money, fast, and in a currency that had a stable worth to the universe. He remembered Earth and its inhabitants, who were strangely possessed with the idea of working themselves to death to get money, before blowing it all on the latest fad. He teamed up with his drifter semi-cousin, went down and set up chains of yoga classes and health food shops. He made the money in no time, and left Earth before Health and Safety had a chance to see the fruit parfait.

By the time he had gotten the money to Sam's captors, however, the surprisingly fragile human was in a vegetative state.

Not to be put out, (nor to create another massive debt at the hands of the hospital), Gabriel skimmed through his old "Engineering and programming" books from grade school, and managed to come up with a way to download the human's consciousness into an as yet unassigned robot body from Sirius Cybernetics. It was not a complete success (the cyborg was prone to manic variations in mood and temperament) and he found that he had been too drunk at the time to remember exactly how he had done it, but he had. And now, Sam and Gabriel were stuck with each other, like it or not.

Dean didn't know any of this. All he knew was that, when Gabriel returned to the bridge, followed by the slightly less depressed-looking robot, he really, really didn't want to think about how it worked. Then Balthazar commented that Gabriel had a spot of what looked like oil on his jeans, and Dean grimaced at the blush that spread across Gabriel's face.

It was at that point that Castiel wandered on to the bridge, and (much to Dean's relief) distracted the conversation with what was possibly the most important and influential thing he would ever say.

"My white mice got out of their cage, I think they're loose. Has anyone seen them?"

"Screw your damn mice." Gabriel said, still scratching at the oil stain on his jeans. The importance and influence of Castiel's statement was not immediately obvious to his shipmates. Balthazar, in particular, had more pressing matters to attend to.

"We're here, guys. We're on Krippketha! We should go out and find whatever's worth finding on this god-forsaken dust-ball."

"But my mice…"

"They're only mice, Castiel." Balthazar rolled his eyes. "Does it really matter?"

It is possible that Balthazar and Gabriel would have had more of a complete comprehension on the subject if they knew that humans were only the third most intelligent species on planet Earth and not, as is often thought by most independent observers, the second.

"Computer." Gabriel said. "Run a check on the atmosphere."

The computer beeped for a few moments, before Bobby's voice ground into the speakers.

"It's good for oxygen, but it smells funky. Are you sure you want to go out there?"

"Yes, thank you, Bobby." Balthazar sighed, drumming his fingers against the ship's door.

"Just… I'm getting a weird electromagnetic pulse coming from somewhere inside the…"

"I'm sure we'll be fine." Balthazar sighed, clearly eager to get exploring. Bobby hummed for a moment, before the ship's door swung open and Balthazar nearly fell through it.

"Your funeral." The computer chuckled as everyone trudged out into the cold air of the desert planet. Castiel cleared his throat.

"Gabriel, are you sure? I mean, we've already been attacked once, and that was before we'd even landed…"

"It's dead." Gabriel stated. "We are the only living things on this planet."

"Yes. And now we're here, we may as well have a look around." Balthazar grinned, gazing around the landscape.

"Wow, you really were starved out there on Earth, weren't you?" Gabriel laughed.

"Hey look!" Balthazar pointed. A small tunnel led down underground, looking rather like an ancient Egyptian subway entrance.

"That…" Gabriel smiled, sharing his semi-cousin's excitable grin, "is definitely worth a look in. Hey Earth man?"

"I have a name." Dean scowled.

"Yeah, whatever. Do you think you could stand out here with Sam? Keep watch?"

Balthazar and Castiel slipped through the entrance, armed with torches and not a lot else.

"Keep watch?" Dean repeated. "I thought you said it was a dead planet?"

"Yeah, but… you know, insurance." Gabriel shrugged, shooting Dean a wink. "Don't go making any moves on my robot, Earth man. Thanks, buddy." So saying, Gabriel ran off after the other aliens. Dean sighed and sat down on the ground, staring out at the pre-dawn horizon. He turned to yell down the tunnel.

"I hope you all get some kind of mummy curse!"

"They probably will." Sam intoned, standing perfectly still. "That, or they'll breathe in some sort of long dormant bacteria that their immune systems have no chance of coping against. There's a good probability one or more of them will die down there."

Oddly, that didn't make Dean feel better.


	5. Chapter 5

**Eventually there will be a chapter without an author's note: Did you know I'm on twitter? I'd love to chat with the people who keep leaving me such lovely reviews. Come find me, my username is VikkieTheMimm Anyway. Onwards.**

**(-*-)**

"This is creepy…" Castiel muttered, torches casting light down the long stone corridor.

"I know." Balthazar grinned. "Isn't it great?"

"Look at it…" Castiel motioned around the derelict equipment that appeared to have just been abandoned.

"What happened to this place?" Balthazar shone his light on the dust-covered bricks. "I mean, why did they die out?"

"Look around." Gabriel muttered. "I'm prepared to guess there wasn't much else to do."

"Hey…" Castiel started examining a particularly dusty nook behind some long-abandoned piece of alien equipment. "I don't think we're the first to explore this planet."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look! Mouse droppings!"

"You and your damn mice." Gabriel sighed. "Should have left you outside with the robot and bought the human."

"Wait…" Castiel stumbled to his feet, following after Gabriel. "You told Dean to wait outside? Why?"

"It's not like he'd do anything useful." Gabriel sighed, dismissing his semi-cousin with a wave. "Besides, don't you want this to be like the good old days? The three of us, doing things we really shouldn't?"

"They did make for good stories." Castiel conceded. Balthazar chuckled.

"Yes, and if I remember rightly, Castiel never got the happy ending."

Gabriel shrugged, grinning wickedly.

"I don't know what you mean."

Castiel sighed and muttered something to himself. Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"I said…"

"Shh!" Balthazar held up his hand, pointing down the tunnel. "What's that light?"  
>"Nothing." Gabriel dismissed. "Reflection of the torch. Now, Cas, have you got something you want to say?"<p>

"I just think you've got no…"

"There is definitely something down there." Balthazar whispered, peering down the corridor. "Can't you hear that humming noise?"

"Balthazar; it's a dead planet. Castiel, I'm just looking out for your best interests. A post-traumatic primate is not your best interest."

"I'm not a child, Gabriel. I don't…"

"Ok, guys, I really think there's something going on down there. And that noise; listen!"

The humming was loud, and low, getting louder and more intense all the time. It was a throbbing, pulsating hum that shot through the nervous system.

"Hey, yeah. What the…"

There was a sudden screech, and a blinding light.

(-*-)

The Bloody Invaluable Book is, as has been previously mentioned, somewhat unevenly edited. In between the useful, the inaccurate and the depressing, lurk the entries which seem to have been submitted solely to fill a quota. These are usually stories or interviews which highlight particularly condemnable or commendable behaviour from certain galactic races, such as the Sma'aritens or an architect from the desert planet of Fewl who built his entire house, not only out of, but on top of, the Fewlian Shifting Desert, and was promptly made homeless and jobless when the desert lived up to its name and shifted, proving the old adage that it is a Fewlish man who builds his house on the sands.

One such tale is the story of one Victor Henrikson, a member of the elite Universal Special Forces who, after an evening of hard drinking with Gabriel Angeles, became quite obsessed with the whereabouts of all the disposable lighters he had brought over the course of his adult life. For a period of years, it became an increasing obsession, aided along by painstaking research, universe-wide interviews, and several heavy abuses of his authority, but eventually he found an answer.

He posed the theory that, somewhere in the ever expanding universe, or perhaps one of the uncountable and therefore potentially infinite parallel dimensions beyond, there was a planet inhabited entirely by living cigarette lighters. He believed that it was to this planet that lighters, once freed from their plastic prisons behind the counters of space ports and fuel stations, would quietly escape to, through liberal use of wormholes, dimension shifts, and their ability to stow away in bags and pockets of unsuspecting travellers.

The theory was an interesting one which quite charmed talk show hosts for a time, and Agent Henrikson grew quite wealthy on the profits, which would have all been fine if he hadn't later announced that he had not only found the planet in question, but claimed to have worked there for a while as an executive butler for an uppity family of Zippos. This was something of a wormhole too far, and Henrikson was locked away in a secure facility, given his own reality TV show, and promptly exiled from polite society.

When, out of nothing other than sheer, morbid curiosity, an expedition was sent to the galactic coordinates Henrikson had claimed was the location of the lighter planet, they found only a small moon, which was inhabited by a solitary man who refused to talk to them. That and a box of business cards for Gabriel Angeles' second hand lighter business.

Meanwhile, on the surface of Krippketha, two suns have just set. Dean gazed out over the fiery dusk, as the stars of an unfamiliar sky flickered into visibility. Sam the sarcastic cyborg noted his awe.

"I know. It's sickeningly depressing, isn't it?"

"What?" Dean stared at him. "You remember what sunsets were like on Earth, right? I've never seen anything like it..."

"Yes." Sam sighed. "But when you're been halfway around the cosmos and back, you realise that sunsets are just another mark of time slowly slipping by. And when you're a robot, you can't even rely on the fact that one day you'll get released from the whole messed up thing by dying."

Dean blinked at Sam for a moment.

"Do you get on well with the other robots?"

"I hate them. They're all so incredibly stupid. Hey, where are you going?"

"Somewhere else." Dean yelled, already walking away from the robot. He really wished he'd been evacuated from Earth with a coat; Krippkethan night was bitter cold, and his work shirt wasn't doing much to block it out. He flapped his arms around himself in an attempt to generate some heat.

"Yeah, it is a little cold out, huh?"

"Bah!" Dean yelled, recoiling as the small, nervy man stepped out of the darkness towards him. His robe and unruly hair meant that the outlines between him and his dark surroundings were blurred, so it took a while for Dean to pinpoint the exact location of the new arrival. Dean tried for something a bit more assertive.

"Who are you?"

The man stepped forward again, his pale hair and dark skin making him seem gaunt and ethereal in the dim moonlight. He was nervy, his hands shaking and his eyes darting left and right as he spoke.

"My name isn't important. Why did you yell?"

"Why? Dude creeps out of the shadows at you, you wouldn't jump?"

"I mean you no harm, Earth creature."

"Yeah, sure, apart from the thing with the guided missiles."

"An ancient computer-operated system." The man seemed apologetic, smiling awkwardly at Dean. "I think they just shoot a couple of missiles every now and then to justify their existence… but you still seem uncomfortable."

"Well, yeah… I mean, I was told this planet was dead."

"Dead?" The man chuckled. "No. We've been sleeping. You know, through all that universal recession stuff. Thought it would be better to wait until people could afford our business. You do know about that, right?"

"Uh… custom made planets?"

"Yes. It was actually a pretty enjoyable job. I liked making the hills and valleys."

"You don't say."

"I'm a simple guy... But yes, we hooked up the computers to the galactic stock market on one end and the cryochambers on the other. We had planned to awake when the recession had backed off enough to let people afford our services."

"Shrewd." Dean nodded, his corporate senses tingling. "Probably not particularly cost effective."

The man shrugged.

"I don't make the policy, I just follow it. Anyway… great events are about to unfold. You must come with me. What is your name?"

"Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Well… "Dean, Dean Winchester", you must come with me, or I'm afraid I'll have to take you." The man produced a small, deadly-looking pistol from his robe. "I know I'm not that threatening, but I understand that is standard protocol in today's world, and hopefully the gun communicates anything I can't."

"It does." Dean nodded, eyeing the gun. "Lead the way."

"We'll take my aircar." The man gestured to a small craft that looked like a cross between a golf buggy and a hovercar, as dark and shapeless as its surroundings. "We must go deep into the bowels of the planet, where as we speak the members of y race are slowly being re-awakened."

"Yeah, look…" Dean tried, before realising the situation was just too odd for him to protest usefully. "Well for starters, I don't even know your name."

"My name… my name is…" The man took a deep breath, staring sadly into the distance. "Shurleyburlfast."

Dean made a noise that sounded something like a car back-firing into a whoopee cushion.

"What?"

"Shurleyburlfast… Look, I told you it wasn't important." The man cringed as he started up the aircar and they began to zoom towards a similar entrance to the one Gabriel and the others had gone down. He sighed, as Dean tried not to laugh in his face. "Just… call me Chuck, ok?"

(-*-)

The principle that things are not as they appear is the foundation for universal arts, entertainment, literature and politics. Take, for example, the recently demolished planet Earth, the ape-descended inhabitants of which had always believed that they were the most intelligent species and not, in actual fact, the third. Man had believed himself more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much (the wheel, nuclear fusion, personalised ringtones and so on) while all dolphins had done was mess around in the water entertaining tourists. Oddly, dolphins believed themselves to be more intelligent for exactly the same reason, which does call into question the average intelligence of an Orlando Resort mascot.

However, there was a third species. Not native to Earth, these pan-dimensional beings constructed such careful and intricate tests on the intelligence of the lesser species that only one of them ever began to suspect it, and his attempts were dismissed as comic science fiction by the populace at large. Dean Winchester, certainly, was completely unaware, although he was beginning to believe everything was possible. He stared around as his surroundings raced past them. He didn't know what speed they were going, but it was fast.

"I should warn you." Chuck gripped the steering tight. "The next room doesn't actually exist inside this planet. It goes through a hyperspace pocket dimension, and it kinda screws with your sense of perspective. Scares the shit out of me."

Dean was about to ask exactly what he meant, when the world apparently decided to explode around him. It opened out into a cavernous chamber so wide and so tall that it seemed to be an endless sea of white walls, which Dean's brain had to bend and sprain itself to comprehend. They continued to tear through the endless room.

"Welcome to the factory floor."

"The light…"

"Yeah, it's a doozy, huh? This is where we made our planets, back in the day."

"And… what, are you starting everything up again?"

"No." Chuck laughed. "The galaxy isn't nearly recovered enough for our fees. This is… something of a special job."

"What's so funny?"

"Look up ahead."

Dean peered into the distance, and saw a shape emerge on the horizon. It was familiar. It was sickeningly, horrifyingly familiar.

"But…" Dean's mind was a blank. His jaw dropped as his eyes continued to stick to their stories. "That's the Earth."

"Yeah. Well, mark two. We were all very upset when we heard about it being demolished. I mean, you must be heartbroken."

"Yeah… yeah, thanks."

"I mean, if it had happened five minutes later, it wouldn't have mattered."

"What?"

"The final experiment was interrupted five minutes before it got completed. The clients caused a huge fuss, and we had to dust off the old blueprints to make it again."

"Whoa, what? 'Again'? Are you saying you made the Earth the first time around?"

"Yeah. I personally oversaw San Francisco, but I think I've got… I think they call it Minnesota, this time around? Either way, we're having to build quickly; the mice are furious."

"Wait." Dean said, his brain still desperately trying to keep up with all of the new information he was being given. "Wait. Wait… Experiments? Five minutes too early? Mice? I don't… what?"

"Yes." Chuck looked at him like he was amazed Dean had missed the memo. "The whole thing was the mice's experiment; a ten-million year research program into finding the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything. It was about to finish, as well, when the Rhaptoor task force destroyed it all. Biggest bureaucratic screw-up in history. Hey, are… are you alright? You look kinda pale."

Dean stared at his surroundings, before staring at the nervous, squirrelly man who had apparently made San Francisco.

"I'm just wondering whether it'd be easier to just give up and go crazy right now."

Chuck thought for a moment, before shrugging and driving on.

"Maybe we should go to my office. There's some tapes there that might help clear up any confusion you've got, and you look like you could use a coffee."

"Yeah…" Dean sighed. "Coffee sounds good. If you've got any whisky, I wouldn't say no."

"Whisky?" Chuck laughed. "You Earth creatures. So quaint." 


	6. Chapter 6

Meanwhile, Sam the sarcastic cyborg looked around the face of the planet, his eyes switching effortlessly to night-vision and giving everything a sickeningly greenish hue. The planet was just a stretch of rocks and sands; no buildings, no people. It was, on the surface, little more than an asteroid. Sam stood, motionless, as he scanned his surroundings. The nearest life forms were a mile or so under his feet, and retreating. Sam was isolated and alone. Dean didn't come back.

Figures.

(-*-)

Gabriel groaned as his brain attempted to reassemble reality around him. It suggested that the process might be a little easier if he opened his eyes, but Gabriel was pretty sure his brain could go take a flying leap.

"Gabriel." A hissing voice hissed at him. It sounded vaguely familiar.

"Go away."

"Gabriel!" It hissed again, accompanied by a shove to his shoulder. This did not increase Gabriel's inclination to listen to the voice.

"I said zark off."

"Gabriel, you've got to see this!"

He opened one bleary eye, and was met with a bleary landscape of bleary shapes. The nearest one slowly resolved itself into the shape of his semi-cousin Balthazar. He was grinning like the Quaxi-zenalonian cat that got the creamed bovine extract, and it wound Gabriel right up.

"What are you so happy about? What happened? Everything hurts…"

"I think we got hit with knock-out gas." Balthazar said, like it was a good thing. "Gabriel, look!" Gabriel was about to complain, when the more distant bleary shapes slowly resolved themselves.

"Is this…"

"It is."

Gabriel's jaw dropped. Not since he was ten years old had he seen anything that so utterly embodied every aspect of fantasy, every wildest dream… the streets were paved with gold. The sea was made out of sugared, carbonated fruit juice. The finest candies of the universe grew on nearby trees, and were caught and served by nubile young nymphs. Gabriel stared around at it in equal parts wonder, enjoyment and total, unyielding confusion.

"I… but… what?"

"I don't know." Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder. "But it's brilliant, isn't it?"

"Where's Castiel?"

"No idea. I woke up and it was just the two of us, in this place."

"Maybe… maybe we're dead."

"You think this is the afterlife?"

Gabriel motioned at their surroundings, prompting adoring giggles from a crowd of nearby nymphs.

"Can you think of anything more heavenly?"

Balthazar thought for a moment. It was a fair point. All of a sudden, a giant banner unscrolled across the sky reading, in bright letters:

"_Krippkethea. Your dreams are our reality_".

Then, the world around them suddenly went dark.

"Balthazar?"

"Yeah, it's done this a couple of times. I think we're in an advert."

"An advert? Like a commercial? For Heaven?"

Annoying, jingle-like music started up, but was quickly cut as the light show around them disappeared, leaving them in a metal-walled holochamber. They saw Castiel standing in the operation booth. He pointed to the door, and they both trudged rather sheepishly out of the chamber.

(-*-)

"No." Dean shook his head, following Chuck into his office. It looked like a small thunderstorm had taken place there, which Dean supposed could be entirely possible. "No, just… no."

"I appreciate that it is rather surprising, earth-man, but I don't know why you find it so shocking."

"But… mice? My whole planet was run for the benefit of mice?"

"Yes."  
>"But… mice?"<p>

"I'm confused, earth-man." Chuck stopped rummaging through the piles of paper he had on his desk, to look at Dean. "If I had mentioned any other animal, would you find it easier to understand?"

"Well, yeah." Dean sighed. "Mice are… mice. They eat cheese, get chased by cats and advertise money-grabbing kids' theme parks."

Chuck stared at him.

"You know? Like, Disney?"

"Dean, I've been in a hyper-coma for about five million years. I'm not up on pop culture."

"Oh… uh… but, you get my point."

"Yes. Look, the creatures you know as mice aren't what they seem. The little four-legged furry things with big ears are just the manifestations their true pan-dimensional form takes when they enter into our universe. Kind of… vessels, I guess. All that stuff with the cheese and the getting chased by cats was just a clever bit of psychology to make humans think they were unthreatening. It's no good setting up an experiment in behavioural psychology if everyone knows you're all powerful overlords."

"I… so the mice were experimenting… with us."

"Yes. Tell me, earth-man, do all humans have such a short memory?"

A voice boomed over a PA system that had long since been buried by mountains of paper.

"Shurleyburlfast. Repeat, Shurleyburlfast. This is a staff announcement, could Shurleyburlfast report to the management offices, please."

"Hyper intelligent beings… but their management skills…"

"Not good with PR?" Dean chuckled, deciding it was best to just give up.

"Every time I talk to them, I get the feeling they're trying to sell me some hokey fairy tale."

"Imagine that."

(-*-)

For as long as there has been life, sources report that there have been problems with life. The most popular chart at "why are people born", "why do they die" and "why do they spend so much of the intervening time messing around with personalised ringtones". Many millions of years ago, a hyper-intelligent race of pan-dimensional beings decided that enough was enough. Getting drunk and having cheap one-night stands or bar room fights could only make up for so much, especially when your true form was capable of performing all three acts at once, and so something had to be done. To this end, they built themselves a super-computer, the likes of which had never been seen before. So intelligent was this computer that, before it had finished its power-up sequence, it had started at "God works in mysterious ways" and gotten around to surmising the religious importance of public transport and the instructions on the back of instant meals.

Could a computer, a mechanical, artificial intelligence be capable of answering the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything?

Fortunately, these hyper-intelligent pan-dimensional beings had something of a tendency towards recording moments for the sake of posterity, and so there exists an account of that fateful day. It is this recording, in which the computer is tasked with its monumental process, which Dean Winchester is now sat down to watch, amidst the sea of clutter in Chuck's office.

The recording beeped loudly, as holographic images formed themselves around him. He soon found himself in a virtual office, much cleaner than Chuck's, and much larger. The polished desk was dark and gleaming, the carpet was neat and clean, and atop the gargantuan desk sat the computer itself; Deep Voice.

"Weird name for a computer." Dean grumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

The informational illusion stirred into action around him.

Two figures entered, who looked almost human, but cast bizarre shadows that seemed impossible given the light in the room.

"Let me guess, that's what their true form looks like on camera?"

"Yes." Chuck nodded. "Now just watch the thing, please?"

The informational illusion resumed play. The two men-like figures approached the vast computer, nervous and excited. The computer lit up.

"What is the task that you would have me complete? You have but to ask, and I, Deep Voice, the second greatest computer in all of time and space shall complete it for you."

"Oh Deep Voice…" Began one of the almost-men, staring up at the computer with awe. "We ask of you…"

"No, hang on." The second one jumped in, looking more suspicious than his companion. "What does it mean, 'second'?"

"I described myself as second greatest." Deep Voice boomed. "And as such, I am."

"But…" The two almost-men exchanged looks. "But aren't you a greater computer than the Maximegalon University's Edlunderrent Analyser, which can predict every possible outcome of any given event within a fraction of a second?"

"The Edlunderrent Analyser…" Deep Voice boomed, thinly veiled contempt in its speakers, "may be able to decode every possible outcome, but only I can see which is the correct one."

"And…" The two almost-men looked at each other once more. "And you are more intelligent than the Krippkethan Console, which manages and manifests five-dimensional blueprints for each planet they design?"

"A trifling abacus. Bore me not with such primitive beasts."

"And you have greater processing capabilities than the Seratronic Megabrain of Carverent Five, which…"

"The Seratronic 'Megabrain' is woefully misnamed. You would do well not to mention it in my presence."

"Well then…" The first almost-man looked to the second, scratching his head. "What's the problem?"

"I speak only of that which is to come after me. A computer so vast, so intricate, that organic life itself will form part of the operational matrix. A computer so beautifully advanced that I am not worthy to contemplate, but that I shall eventually be charged with designing."

"Seriously?" The second almost-man turned to the first. "You don't think this is needlessly pedantic?"

"Isn't being a pedant always needless? I had thought that was the meaning of…"

"Deep Voice, can we just get on and ask the question?"

"Speak, and I shall answer."

The first almost-man cleared his throat, and resumed his awestruck gazing.

"Oh Deep Voice. We have designed you for this task; we want you to tell us… The Answer."

Deep Voice blipped, contemplatively.

"The answer?"

"You know… the ultimate answer. To Life…"

"The universe."

"Everything!"  
>Deep Voice blipped again, before humming.<p>

"Tricky."

"But you can do it?"

"Yes. I'll have to think about it."

"That's fine. Don't…"

The door burst open, and two more almost-men burst in, these ones wearing wild, flowing robes that clashed garishly with their sleek, executive surroundings.

"Stop!" One of the robed ones declared. "Stop this right now."

"Who are you?" Cried the first almost-man.

"We are philosophers." Stated the robed ones. "And we demand that you switch this… 'thing' off."

"What?" The second almost-man turned on them. "Why?"

"As philosophers, we hold the market on all existential crises, contemplations and theorems. You can't take our business, pal, it's a union matter. It's… what do they call it…"

"Demarcation?" The second almost-man supplied, earning himself a glare from his partner. The philosopher grinned.

"That's the one. The machines can handle all the adding up, all the number problems, all the quadratic functions and what-have-you. Let us deal with the unanswerable questions concerning metaphysical states of existence, thank you very much. It's our inalienable prerogative, isn't it?"

"If I might…" Deep Voice began, to scowls from the philosophers.

"You keep your circuits out of this, Pentium-brains. No, this is illegal. Taking work away from your standard, blue-collar thinkers. It's no good us debating the existence of heaves, hells and purgatories if this thing comes along and gives you a bloomin' map to 'em."

"If I might make…"

"We'll go on strike!" The philosophers shouted, jabbing their almost-fingers at the almost-men's almost-chests. "You'll have a national strike of Philosophers, luminaries and thinking persons."

"And exactly who is that going to inconvenience?"

"If. I. Might. Make. An. Observation." Deep Voice boomed, cutting into their argument. "All I wanted to say is that my circuits are now irrevocably committed to computing the Answer."

"Oh, well then…"

"But. The program will take rather a long while to run."

"How long?"  
>"Seven and a half million years."<p>

"What?"

"Approximately. And it occurs to me that a program such as this is bound to cause fervent media speculation. And, if a group of pundits were to guess what the final Answer may be… as long as they disagreed with each other violently enough, they could probably clean up on the chat shows and newspaper columns."

Everyone blinked up at Deep Voice. No one really knew what to say to that, so they decided to leave the computer to it.

Dean blinked, as the illusion dispelled.

"Huh… So even other dimensions get annoying chat show guests."

Chuck nodded, laughing a little.

"But what's it all got to do with the Earth?"

Chuck stared at him, before running a hand over his face.

"Not to quick on the draw there, are you?"

"What?"

"Just… play the next illusion." Chuck waved his hand at the illusion player, and it sputtered into life once more. The holographic office was just as clean and tidy, but had lost its sheen of newness.

Two new almost-men, one surrounded by dancing white light, and one surrounded by swirling black shadow, were stood in front of Deep Voice.

"Here we are." Said the light one. "The time of waiting is over."

"Seven and a half million years." Agreed the dark one. "Here's hoping it's worth it."

"Never again will we wake up and wonder who we are, why we are… whether or not it would matter if we just sat around in our underwear all day. It'll be, finally, completely sorted out."

The computer hummed into life.

"Good Evening."

"Deep Voice! Good evening." The light one spoke, everything about him tense. "Have you… have you reached a conclusion?"

"Can you give us an answer?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"Yes."

"The Answer? The ultimate answer of Life, The Universe and Everything?"

"Yes." Deep Voice said, before continuing with a pause so pregnant that it may have morphed into a chest-burster scene from Alien. "But you won't like it."  
>"That doesn't matter." The light one dismissed, leaning forward.<p>

"That's almost expected." The dark one agreed, staring intently up at the computer.

"Alright." Said Deep Voice. "The ultimate Answer…"

"Yes?"

"To Life, The Universe and Everything…"

"Yes?"

"Is… is.."

"Yes?"  
>"Yellow." Deep Voice sounded suitable abashed.<p>

Whatever the pause had birthed, it must have smelled pretty bad to make the light and dark ones make faces like that.

"Yellow?"

"Yes. I've worked at it, double checked it, gone over it at least forty two times, and the answer is quite definitely 'yellow'."

The dark one stared at the light one.

"So would you rather go for a murder-suicide, or just let the crowds of people waiting for us outside do it?"

"No." The light one said. "No, that can't be right…"

"It is." Deep Voice intoned. "But I think the problem may have been that you didn't actually give me a question."

"We gave you the ultimate question!" Yelled the light one. "The question of Life, the Universe, and Everything!"

"Which is?"

The light one and the dark one stared at each other, before slumping to the floor.

"We have no question." The light one sighed.

"And without a question, the answer doesn't make sense." The dark one agreed.

"But…" Deep Voice spoke, cutting through their maudlin silence. "I do know who could tell you the question."

"Brilliant." The dark one leapt to his feet. "Who?"

"I speak only…" Deep Voice's speech units resonated with a bassy tremble, making his declaration sound unnervingly mythic. "Of that which is to come after me. A computer so vast, so intricate, that organic life itself will form part of the operational matrix. A computer so beautifully advanced that I am not worthy to contemplate, but that I shall now design for you… It shall be called… The Earth."

"The Earth…" The dark one muttered, watching as blueprints and holograms danced across Deep Voice's screen. "I don't like the name much…"

The illusion flickered and dispersed. Dean stared at Chuck.

"No way."

"Yup."

"No way."

"Yup. That is how the Earth was designed. We built it, placed it, and the mice oversaw the experiment, until… well, you know how the story ended."

Dean sat back, his mind reeling under all the new information. Chuck patted him on the shoulder.

"If you want my opinion, the fact that the answer doesn't make sense seems perfectly rational, if you look at the world."

"I'm beginning to agree with you."

"Shurleyburlfast!" The PA yelled again, much more insistent. "Report to the management offices at once and bring the Earth creature with you. Come on, man, you're letting the side down."

Chuck sighed.

"Come on. The mice don't like to be kept waiting."

"I give up, man." Dean sighed, following after Chuck. "In the last twenty four hours, I've found out my planet was run by mice as an experiment, I've been blown up, thrown off ships, thrown through space and made to do it all with a headache. And my girlfriend left me."

"Really?" Chuck huffed a soft laugh. "Ouch. What happened?"

"She was messing around on me. Told her to shape up or ship out."

Chuck blinked up at him, before shaking his head and leading the way down the corridor.

"You really thought she'd stay?"

"I was… ugh, forget it."


	7. Chapter 7

Dean followed Chuck into a large hall, walking towards a long table which was laden down with bizarre and alien forms of food which looked almost, but not quite familiar. Around the table sat Gabriel, Castiel and Balthazar, talking animatedly and looking surprisingly at ease.

"Dean!" Balthazar waved, calling his friend over. "You've got to try the Purgatian Megadonkey, it's the best you'll ever eat!"

Dean approached the table, staring at them.

"What are you doing here?"

"We were, um… 'forcefully invited'." Gabriel grinned. "Our hosts kind of insisted we stick around and do lunch."

"Hosts?" Dean looked around for whoever Gabriel was talking about.

"Dean Winchester." Something squeaked. "We meet at last."

Dean looked down at the table, and recoiled instinctively.

"Ew, dude, there's mice on the table!"

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Chuck sighed and buried his face in his hands.

"Oh…" Dean smiled awkwardly, looking down at the two mice. "Sorry, uh… still adjusting."

"Yes…" The white mouse spoke, his voice unnaturally squeaky. "Well, no one expects wonders from you, human."

"And yet," chipped in the black mouse, "We really hope you can produce them."

"Oh." Castiel stood, grinning dopily. "Dean, I should introduce you. This is Mickey and Lucy, the two mice I rescued from Earth."

"I'd really rather we dropped those particular monikers." The black mouse sighed. "I suggest, if you must call me anything, you call me 'Lucifer'. Him, however, you can call as you please."

"I would prefer…" the white mouse squeaked back, tail twitching in irritation, "that you call me Michael, but it is non-essential. Dean, we must speak with you."

"The mice have a proposal for us." Balthazar grinned, eyes gleaming with the same wicked smile as his semi-cousin.

"A lucrative proposal." Gabriel agreed, his tone making Dean's corporate senses tingle.

"Shurleyburlfast, you may leave." Lucifer sniffed, flicking his tail at Chuck. Chuck jumped, resuming his nervous twitching.

"Oh, sure. I'll just, uh… Get to work, I guess."

"Oh, about that. Turns out we won't need the Earth Mark 2 after all. I'm sure we can trust you to inform everyone that they're no longer needed."

"But…"

"Thank you, you may go."

"I… ok… Well, uh, good luck, Dean. Hope things get a little less hectic for you."

Chuck left, shooting the mice dark glares as he did so. The mice ran to a maze of plastic tubes and boxes that sat on top of the table, looking like a more technological version of the hamster tracks Dean had seen on Earth.

"It is a simple enough proposition, Earth-man." Michael squeaked, running up inside a brightly coloured tube to reach a plastic platform a few feet above table level. Lucifer soon joined him.

"As you must know by now, human life only began to exist as part of the organic computational matrix of the Earth."

"Uh…" Dean nodded. "Sure."

"And, being on the planet Earth from the moment of your birth to the last possible moment before its demolition, you are the last true human consciousness."

"Sam doesn't count." Castiel put in, seeing Dean open his mouth to question. "His consciousness has been scrambled by the GPP of his robot body."

"Yeah, and won't he just love being told that." Gabriel muttered into his drink, scowling at the table.

"We believe," Michael squeaked, his beady black eyes intent on Dean, "that, as a part of the original computer matrix, and being there so near to the time of completion…"

"The question we were looking for, or at least a very-near-accurate version of the question, should be imprinted in your brain waves." Lucifer joined in, much more flippant in his observance of Dean, but no less unnerving. "The key to finding the Ultimate Question is locked up in that brain of yours. And we wish to buy it off you."

"They're talking big money." Gabriel smiled.

"As your agent…" Balthazar began.

"Since when are you my agent?"

"Since you took forever to get here. Now, as your agent, I have negotiated a settlement which we find fair and worthwhile."

"Ok." Dean nodded, looking around at all the assembled faces. "Deal. But, how would I know what the question is? I mean, believe me, if I knew it, I'd sell it to you…"

"Oh, no, you misunderstand." Michael squeaked in a way that sounded like terrifying, high-pitched laughter. "We can't buy the question. The science of your dimension is not nearly advanced enough to decode it."

"No." Lucifer agreed. "We wish to buy your brain."

"What?" Dean turned on the small group of astonished travellers. "You sold them my brain?"

"Not… not knowingly." Gabriel blustered, staring at the mice.

"It's a very simple procedure." Michael sighed, impatient. "We simply cut you open and take it back to our dimension. Yes, you'll die, but think of what you will be contributing to."

"But I need my brain!" Dean protested, backing away from the unhappy-looking rodents. "I don't want to die, not yet…"

"But you agreed." Lucifer squeaked. "We all heard you."

"Yeah, well… I un-agree."

"Un-agree?" Castiel repeated. "Weren't you a vice president or something? The best you can come up with is 'un-agree'?"

"I'm a little stressed here, what with mice trying to stake claim to my brain."

"Look." Lucifer squeaked, shrill voice taking on a menacing edge. "We tried to play nice, and if you won't sell us your brain, then I'm afraid we're just going to have to take it."

"Yeah, ok." Gabriel stood, making a violent hand gesture to imply Balthazar and Castiel do the same. "You guys may be all-encompassing in your dimension, but here on our turf, you'll have problems making it off that table."

"We know." Michael growled (as much as a white mouse can growl). "That is why we have summoned an elite troupe of mercenaries."

As if his words required proof, a group of five khaki-clad, gun-toting walls of walking muscle entered through the far set of doors, their faces set in expressions of extreme intimidation.

"Ah." Gabriel said. He turned his head to Castiel, as much as he could without taking his eyes off the mercenaries. "Am I right in thinking there's a set of doors behind us?"

"Yes." Castiel whispered.

"Are there gun-toting maniacs there, too?"

"No."

"Well that's lucky. Run!"

The group fled from the room in a manner void of grace, poise or dignity, but with their lives intact. Lucifer sniffed, his whiskers twitching dangerously.

"Bring the human back alive. Kill the others."

(-*-)

The small group scarpered through the corridors, pursued by blasts of bright light that dissolved everything they hit in a spray of embers.

"In here! Hide behind the computer banks."

Hiding between rows of blinking processors, the group huddled in the dim green light.

"Dammit." Gabriel gasped, struggling to regain his breath.

"Son of a bitch." Dean agreed. Then, glaring, "I can't believe you sold my brain."

"We thought they just wanted a question!" Gabriel raised his hands, defensively, as Castiel restrained Dean by his shoulder. "The answer's yellow, how hard could it be to make one up?"

"What colour clashes with purple?" Castiel supplied. "What colour rhymes with the best state of mind?"

"Yes, thank you, oh great prophet." Balthazar snapped. "How are we going to get out of this? Isn't there some kind of mobile communications device so you can, I don't know, communicate with the ship?"

"Hey, yeah!" Gabriel smiled.

"Great. Where is it?"

"It's… on the ship."

All three scowled at Gabriel, but were distracted when the computer bank next to them was riddled with gunfire.

"Give up, DiAngelo." One of the mercenaries called. "Do you have any idea how many people are pushing for your head?"

"Yeah." A second mercenary laughed. "We could make enough money to retire, just on you alone."

"Me?" Gabriel yelled, poking his head around the edge of the computer banks. "I thought you were after the human! What did I do?" He ducked back in quickly, as another barrage of gunfire was opened on them.

"You stole the ship." The first mercenary replied. "Not to mention the tax evasion, intergalactic con ring, extortion, solicitation…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Gabriel sighed. "Fine. But do you have to shoot at us?"

Another barrage of shots sent sparks flying from the computer consoles. There was a pause.

"Are you all still alive?"

"Yes."

"Then yeah, we have to keep shooting at you."

"Sorry, pal." Chipped in the second mercenary. "It's nothing personal."

"Oh, well then." Balthazar rolled his eyes. "As long as it's not _personal._"

"Uh, guys?" Dean looked around, brow furrowed. "Where's Castiel?"

"Over here." Came the hissed reply, from behind an adjacent computer bank. "And I think you should move. That one's taken all it's going to take."

They crawled forwards, quickly scuffling to get into the next row of computer banks as the one behind them fizzled and ruptured, before exploding behind them in a flash of light.

"Ha!" Gabriel yelled. "You missed!"

"Gabriel, get down!" Castiel grabbed his arm and pulled him behind the computer bank with the rest of them. Castiel had gutted the computer bank he was next to, burying himself in wires and components that Dean could barely identify.

"What are you doing?"

"Saving us." He took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, and used the flame to melt a few wires to a round piece of circuit board. He gave the mess of circuitry to Balthazar before turning to another gadget, made of what looked almost like a light bulb. "Hold this."

"What is it?"

"It's a device that should help us communicate with Sam. Worryingly, he's our last chance." Castiel flipped the cigarette lighter open again, holding the flame to the device in his hands.

"And what's that?"

Castiel smiled, took something out of his pocket and dropped it into the device. Then, he held one end of the device to his lips and inhaled. The group rolled eyes as one. Castiel shrugged, giggling slightly as he wheezed out.

"You think I'm gonna make it through this sober? Call Sam."

"Way ahead of you." Gabriel snatched the mess of wires and circuitry from Balthazar, holding it up a few inches from his face. A deluge of fire from the mercenaries' guns, incessantly raining down on the computer banks around them, sending noisy showers of sparks everywhere. "Sam? Sam can you hear me?"

"What is it?" The robot's voice droned over the hastily improvised speakers.

"Sam, we need help. There's a group of mercenaries down here who…"

There was a startled cry from the mercenaries, and a sudden stop to the gunfire. They made some gasping, choking noises, before fading into silence.

"You mean there was a group of mercenaries." Sam sighed. "I bioscanned just before you called. They didn't breathe oxygen, so I just had to override their localised atmo-generators. More senseless deaths, just so we can make a clean getaway."

"Oh… ok…" Gabriel blinked. "Thanks. You want to give us sonar guidance out of here?"

Sam heaved another heavy sigh, before groaning.

"Of course, Gabriel, I don't mind being stood out here on my own for hours on end, and I'd love to help you mortals keep your mortality."

"Sam…"

"Alright. There should be doors to your left. Follow that corridor and hide from the back-up security that will be approaching along it in approximately five point two seconds. If you survive, I'll give you further instructions."

"Thanks, Sam." Dean called, following Castiel and Balthazar. He checked his watch, more out of habit than anything, and realised it would be half eight on Earth. He might survive this Thursday after all.

(-*-)

When they made it out of the bowels of Krippketha, they found Sam waiting to walk them the short distance back to the ship. Gabriel slipped underneath the robot's arm, congratulating him on a job well done, and boasting about all the guards they both knew Gabriel didn't really bring down.

"They're sort of sweet, really." Castiel fell into step next to Dean. Balthazar was walking in front of all of them, eager to get back on the ship and go somewhere "more interesting and less wanting-us-dead".

"Yeah, sort of." Dean admitted, glancing over at Castiel. "So, thanks for making that thing back there."

"It's nothing special." Castiel shrugged. "Gabriel delights in telling me I'm the 'geek' of the family. If it saves our lives, I'm not going to complain."

"Fair enough." Dean cleared his throat. "So… what's that?" He saw a squat, ugly ship, crumpled on the ground next to theirs. Castiel stared at it.

"Probably the ship the mercenaries came here in. I'm betting those mice won't give up; we'll have to watch out for more of them."

"Why is it all… flat?" Dean tried to sum up the words. The ship had the same air about it one experiences when looking at an abandoned car, or a ruined house; sadness and futility. Sam, with his super-robot hearing, turned to face Dean.

"It was how I overrode the localised atmo-generators. Plugged myself into the ship, asked it to turn off the generators, and then talked to it. It listened for about five minutes, before… giving up."

"We need to get you emotionally reconfigured." Gabriel stared up at Sam, as they approached The Impala, to find Balthazar waiting in the open hatchway. "Remind me, next time we get near somewhere that can program GPP. Maybe get you a silicone skin, too…"

"Hey, that's a point." Castiel said, as they walked towards the bridge. "Where are we going next? We found Krippketha, which was the sole reason you stole this thing in the first place, and it was a bust."

"A bust that will now have us being pursued for trophies, if we don't move quickly." Balthazar supplemented, pouring himself a drink from the bridge's mini-bar.

"Right." Gabriel nodded, slipping out from under Sam's arm. "Well, I know I could do with some lunch. Anyone have any preferences?"

"Chinese?" Dean suggested, earning himself a slowest-kid-in-the-class glare from the assembled crew.

"You know me." Castiel shrugged. "Food is food."

"At this point, I'll take anything more exotic than bloody chicken salads." Balthazar shuddered. "I'm sorry Dean, but your race hadn't quite got the hang of cuisine."

"Somewhere to eat…" Gabriel mused, running his hands across the control panel. "And somewhere to give Sam an emotional defrag. Computer, get us out of orbit."

"Finally." Bobby grumbled, shooting the ship into start-up. "And hello to you too. Where in the hell did you get to?"

"We got waylaid." Gabriel dismissed. "Are we out of orbit yet?"

"Hold your horses, boy…"

"Gabriel?" Balthazar watched him. "Where are we going?"

"Get with the program, Balthazar." Gabriel grinned. "We're going wherever the hell we want."

"Out of orbit now."

"We've got this ship; we may as well use it… Everyone hold on to something." So saying, he brought his closed fist down on the Leap of Faith button and, with a small, quiet buzz, the ship blinked its way through the universe.

(-*-)

Prostetnic Daemon Crowley rolled his shoulders, the grey tinge of his skin made all the more unhealthy-looking by the harsh light above him. The bridge around him was dark. He stared up at the visi-screen above him.

"Know this, Crowley…" The gigantic projection of a furry face loomed overhead, its whiskers twitching. "We take no pleasure in dealing with you."

"Charming."

"It's not a personal thing." The black fur shone overhead, as the furtive black eyes bored through the camera. "All you limited dimensional creatures are the same as far as I'm concerned. But I have been told that your race gets results."

Crowley shrugged.

"We get what we are paid to get. No more, no less."

"Yes…" Lucifer the mouse squeaked, thoughtfully. "Well, since it was your Task Force who destroyed the Earth…"

"We prefer the term 'Streamlined'." Crowley interjected, standing up a little straighter. "Gives it a much less personal approach."

"Call it what you will, the Earth is no longer there. And you refuse to tell me exactly who ordered the… 'streamlining' of Earth…"

"We promise total confidentiality. Petty grudges and half-assed guesswork is much better for business than actual fact."

"Prostetnic Daemon Crowley. As you destroyed the Earth, I charge you with finding the loose end you left behind."  
>"Loose end?" Crowley repeated, incredulously. "We don't leave loose ends."<p>

"Well, this time you did. A human was taken off planet with a hitchhiker…"

"And they promptly jettisoned themselves, unprotected, into space." Crowley spoke, forcefully. "I think we can dismiss…"

"They are still alive, Crowley. You and I both know they are still alive. And I don't care what you have been paid to kill this human, I will double it if you return his live brain to Krippketha."

"Double?" Crowley sneered. "How dare you assault my professionalism by suggesting I would overturn an existing contract for double pay…"

"Fine, then, triple."  
>"That's better." Crowley smiled, a savage glint in his eye. He bowed, slightly. "A pleasure doing business with you, sir. I hope you enjoy your return to your own dimension, and may I say how shiny your fur is looking today?"<p>

"Flattery will not work on me, Crowley." Lucifer sighed, and the visi-screen disappeared. Crowley smirked, before turning to a nearby ship intercom.

"This is your Captain speaking. We have a new contract. We need to find and trace the Impala, and we need to detain one of the crew members. Anyone who brings me results will be rewarded. Anyone who fails to bring me results will be shot, and that's if I'm in a good mood. Tell anyone about this change of plan, and you will also be shot, if you're lucky. Someone needs to get me a drink now. And, in case you're interested, I am not in a good mood. Message ends."

Crowley stared out at the stars. Dean Winchester, it seemed, was going to be a problem. Crowley wondered what this intrepid adventurer must be like, that he could come from an under-evolved planet, survive floating unprotected in space, and escape unscathed from an attack by a group of five hired gunmen.

Must be a worthy foe, thought Crowley, as the minions began running around to get him his drink.

He had no way of knowing Dean Winchester had just become incredibly motion-sick, thrown up and passed out, much to the annoyance of his more seasoned crew. But then, they had no way of knowing they were being thought of.


	8. Chapter 8

The story so far: In the beginning, the universe began. This prompted a lot of negative feedback, which may or may not be taken into account, should work ever begin on a sequel. Most races believe that the universe was created by some sort of "god", but there has been a lot of dispute as to which one could stake the most claim, which was not helped by select groups of annoyingly serene people suggesting that maybe all gods were about the same. As such, a group of hyper-dimensional beings decided that enough was enough, and set about to finally answer the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything.

However, some seven million years later, they discovered that the answer was, in fact, "Yellow". On further examination, it was revealed that the answer made no sense because they had yet to find the respective question and, to that end, the most intelligent, most intricate super-computer in all of space and time was built, and it commenced to run such a ground-breaking program that organic life was used as part of the computational matrix.

It was called the Earth.

Then it was demolished five minutes before completion.

At this point, the hyper-dimensional beings were more than a little peeved. However, luckily for them, there is a high chance that the question, or a variant thereof, still exists, buried deep in the subconscious of Dean Winchester, the Earth's only surviving human consciousness. Dean is currently slowly returning to consciousness as he lies on his back in the sick bay of the stolen Impala starship.

"Hey." Castiel smiled down at Dean, looking a little relieved. "You're not dead!"

"No…" Dean blinked, pushing himself into sitting up. "I'm not. What happened?"

"We started Leap of Faith drive. You weren't holding on to anything. You fell and hit your head… It was kind of funny, but then we realised you were unconscious, so we moved you in here."  
>"Oh." Dean ran a hand over his head, and felt a small wad of cotton at the base of his neck.<p>

"Yeah, that can probably be removed. Here." Castiel rested one had on Dean's shoulder, steadying him as the bandage was removed. Castiel was suddenly very close and Dean wasn't sure what to do. But as soon as his brain had registered it, Castiel pulled the bandage off and moved away, the lights stopped swimming blearily, and Dean felt disconcertingly healthy. He was, he noticed, free of the headache that had been dogging him since he was dragged into that rhaptoor spaceship.

"That's amazing…"

"Yeah, Earth medicine was primitive." Castiel chuckled. "You've got a universe of amazing stretching out in front of you."

"Hey, how are you?" Dean swung his legs off the hospital bed, watching Castiel closely. "Since, you know… your mice…"

"I'm… yeah." Cas shrugged, a drowsy half smile on his lips. "I guess they're not my mice after all, which is kind of a shame, since they were my only refuge against Gabriel's… Gabriel-ness. I mean, he's a great guy. So are Sam and Balthazar, but sometimes they frustrate me."

"I can imagine." Dean chuckled. He punched Castiel amicably on the arm. "You know you and me can crack a beer together though, any time you want to be the smartest alien in the room."

Castiel laughed at this, cocking his head to one side as he stared at Dean. Dean felt himself shrink under the intense, ice-blue glare.

"So, uh…"

"Attention, crew." The voice of Bobby, the ship's computer crackled over the speakers. "We have landed. I don't know where in the hell we leapt to, but we've landed. Give me a minute to compute… oh, and Captain wants everyone by the bay doors soon as possible."

Castiel grinned, stood and left. Dean followed after, wondering if he had doomed himself to being permanently confused and knocked out every five minutes. He tried very hard to ignore the quiet snickering that came from the speakers.

When they got to the bay doors, Gabriel and Balthazar were nowhere to be seen. Sam, however, was waiting for them, and oddly resplendent. His chassis gleamed under the brilliant white lights that illuminated the bay, and his silver face-plates shone in their infrequently used "smile" configuration.

"Dean. You've regained consciousness!"

"Yeah."

"I want you to know that, no matter how much they claim to have laughed at you, both Gabriel and Balthazar were concerned for your wellbeing."  
>"Oh, that's… thanks."<p>

"Humans have notoriously thin skulls, and they're convinced they can figure out some why to make money out of this question thing if you stay alive."  
>"Oh." Dean's face fell. Castiel chuckled a little, before turning to Sam.<p>

"So you look positively shiny. Any reason?"

"Gabriel insisted I buff my chassis free of the Krippkethan sand. He even helped me. Sometimes, I get the feeling he really cares about me."

Oh God, thought Dean. Sam the Emotionally Unstable Cyborg clearly had no sense of moderation, and he was almost as insufferable happy as he was depressed.

"I found out where we are!" Gabriel grinned, as he bounded into the bay and slapped Sam's ass. The clanging sound that followed made everyone uncomfortable.

"CelestiWays." Balthazar said, more to change the subject than anything. "The ship has touched down outside of The CelestiWays restaurant."

"Ooh." Castiel grinned, smirking at Dean. "Not bad for your first meal off-planet."  
>"What's Celestiways?" Dean glanced around the group, who were all smartening themselves up as Gabriel opened the bay doors. "Is there something special about it?"<p>

"Are you kidding?" Gabriel grinned, his eyes glinting. "It's the restaurant at the end of the universe."

(-*-)

'The Restaurant at the End of the Universe' is one of the most astonishing and outlandish ventures in the history of catering. A localised time-dome has been erected around one solitary asteroid, and projects itself forward in time to the very last few moments of the universe. The restaurant sits atop the asteroid, protected from the end of the universe by the presence of the time-dome. While inside, patrons from throughout time and space sit and eat the finest cuisine the universe has ever had to offer, whilst the cosmos explodes for their entertainment. You can arrive without any prior reservation as you can book retrospectively on return to your own time period, and you need not worry about paying, as you can simply deposit a small sum into a savings account in your own time period, and the collected interest will sufficiently cover it by the time you come to eat.

The entire process is showy, over the top and almost gaudy, causing many spectators to remark that it's a good thing CelestiWays was a restaurant, and not a broadcasting company. The CelestiWays advertising executives thought it was as good an image as any to cash in, and so came up with the advertising slogan:

"Too much of a good thing can only make it better… dinner for two at The C.W."

(-*-)

As the group were shown to their seats by a condescending waiter, a being that time had long since forgotten stood on a small stage, a spotlight blinding everyone with the glare from his gold tuxedo. His smile was sleazy, and one that barely masked his contempt for everyone present.

"Hello, there, ladies and gents, hello, it's wonderful to see you all tonight…"

"I think I used to go to school with him…" Gabriel leant forward, trying to get a better view.

"Baldur." Balthazar tutted. "He was a sleaze back then, too."

"Oh right! What a dick." Gabriel smiled, reminiscing. They tuned him out and talked amongst themselves, as it seemed everyone else was doing. Even the house band was playing over him.

"I don't get it…"Dean said, as he cast his eyes towards the domed, glass ceiling. The entirety of space stretched out overhead, boiling and seething as star after star turned supernova. "If the universe ends, won't we be ended too?"

"No." Castiel grinned, beaming up at the waitress who bought them their drinks. "Thank you. Three more of these would be wonderful." He turned back to Dean. "As soon as you come in, you get sealed in a temporal anomaly dome. It takes you through the end of the universe, and then pulls you back to five minutes before you arrived, so you avoid the whole mess of meeting yourself."

"Happened to me, once." Balthazar chipped in, already halfway through his drink. "Very embarrassing."

"But won't it…"

"Don't think about it, earth man." Gabriel advised. "It ruins the whole experience. You think too much, you end up like Sam."

"Hey!" Sam pouted, switching instantly from happy mode into bitch mode. Gabriel smiled apologetically and the two of them sank into whispered arguments. Balthazar was busy flirting with the drinks waitress.

"Look." Castiel smiled, seeing that Dean was still worried. He drained his first drink and turned on the second one. "If you're still freaking out, think of it this way. Imagine you've got a ball, ok? A kid's soccer ball, filled with air… except giant. Like…" he held his hands about three feet apart, and looked at Dean. "Big. And you take it into a swimming pool, a really big one, and you push it down under the surface of the water. And you push it as close to the bottom of the pool as you can, and when it gets there, you try to sit on it. Then, as soon as your feet aren't touching the floor, the, um… buoyancy of the ball takes over, right? So it pushes up to be above the surface of the water and pushes you with it. You fall backwards into the pool."

"And… how does that relate to this?"

"It doesn't." Castiel turned a half-loopy smile on Dean. "But it's a lot of fun. Drink up, you're lagging behind."  
>Baldur returned on stage, just as their main course arrived.<p>

"Now, now, ladies, gentlemen, thank you very much…"

"What do you think he's doing here?" Balthazar said, around a mouthful of steak. "I never had him pinned as a fanatic of the entertainment industry…"

"I don't know." Gabriel shrugged, between bites of something that looked, to Dean, like a savoury cheesecake. "I recall something about him being caught speeding around an ice moon and soliciting Pathneon call girls. I guess this is his community service."  
>"I suppose…" Balthazar stared down at the stage, his expression somewhere between pity and horror. "But let's be honest, I think we're the ones being punished here."<p>

"True." Castiel nodded.

"Man, his jokes are old." Dean muttered, focusing on the food since it was markedly more enjoyable. "A whole universe I haven't discovered yet and they still tell knock knock jokes?"

"Talk about a primitive act." Gabriel agreed. "I think we're going to need more drinks."

Ten minutes later, a gleaming golden coloured waitress-bot approached the table with the sweet trolley.

"Good evening, Gentlemen. My name is Pamela Four-Zero-One, and I'm your serverbot. You want dessert before the universe implodes?"

"Sure." Gabriel was instantly alerted at the mention of sweet foods and the sight of a waitress (even a robotic one). "What do you have?"

"Well hun," the robot smiled. "I've got anything you like. I can reach into your brainwaves, pluck a memory of a dessert you once had out of that brain-box and materialise it in thin air."

"Really?" Castiel smiled. "How about…" He closed his eyes and seemed to focus on something. Pamela smiled, and her LED eyes switched off for a moment. She placed both hands on what Dean had thought was the empty trolley, and Dean watched in amazement as the trolley glowed, steamed, and then opened at the top, revealing a bowl of something that was oddly familiar.

"Hey, that was that damn fruit parfait!" Dean pointed at it, looking incredulously at Castiel. "The one that made me sick!"

"I said sorry." Castiel pouted. "It's not like it's my fault, anyway. You're the one with the flawed digestive system."

Dean was about to ask what that meant when Gabriel interrupted.

"Pan-Galactic Sorbet Blaster, Pam baby." He grinned and winked at her, as she performed her food generating trick again. Balthazar smiled.

"I'd take a… oh what was it called? Gabriel, that thing your third mother used to make? With the Fanga berries and the…"

"Don't need a name, sweets, I just need a memory." Pamela grinned at him, and with another glow and a puff of smoke, a bowl of some sort of steaming, orange berry sponge was placed in front of Balthazar. Pamela turned to Dean.

"I doubt you'll have made mine before."

"Ooh, I live for a challenge."

Dean closed his eyes and focused on the very best apple pie he could think of. With ice cream.

It took a while, but eventually, Pamela set his bowl down on the table, a slightly confused expression on her face-plates.

"That was… odd. Anyway." She turned to Sam, grinning at him. "What about you, grumpy? I'm sure I could oblige you with an oil change…"

Sam's eyebrows shot up his forehead so fast Dean was pretty sure he heard a telescopic zoom sound. Gabriel levelled Pam with a very stony, if drunken glare.

"His oil is fine. He could probably do with a side of back the hell off, though."

Pamela shrugged.

"Can't blame a gal for trying. See you around, boys."

And with that, she left, Gabriel's glare trailing behind her.

"Smooth." Castiel shook his head. "Very subtle. You'll get us kicked out."

"Castiel, why don't you…"

"Gabriel, I think we should leave." Sam's voice was back to its weary drone, setting everyone's teeth on edge. Gabriel sighed.

"Sam, just because one waitress hits on you, we don't have to…"

"Not because of that." Sam looked around the table. "I meant, we should leave because I've just picked up a police signal that says they followed the residual atomic signature left when we leapt through time, and now they're here looking for us."

"Oh." Said Gabriel.

"Oh." Agreed Castiel.

"Oh." Said Balthazar. Then; "We'd better get a move on then."

Dean sighed. He just wanted to eat some damn pie.


	9. Chapter 9

Balthazar led the way out of the restaurant, walking quickly and quietly and keeping his head low. He stopped only when he saw Pamela the server-bot, who had just finished amazing a table of reptiloids with her mind-reading dessert trolley.

"Excuse me?"

"Well hey there, handsome. Problem?"

"Yes. You see, we need to escape in something of a hurry, and we need a distraction and… well if I'm honest I've always wanted to do this, so… would you mind if…"

He closed his eyes and set his face in an expression of great concentration. Pamela laid her hands on the trolley once more, and soon she was able to hand him his dessert of choice.

"You didn't get it from me." She warned, before stepping aside. Balthazar smiled, nodded, and turned to Gabriel.

"Baldur was the one who got you expelled so he could steal your girlfriend, correct?"

"Correct."

"Then you can thank me for this later." So saying, Balthazar pulled back his arm, and threw the heavily laden custard cream pie at the sleazy humanoid figure on stage. Baldur was knocked off his feet, and the crowd erupted in noise. It was under the cover of such chaos that Balthazar, Gabriel, Sam, Castiel and Dean made it to the parking bays.

"It's the ship." Castiel said, with certainty. "They're chasing us because of the ship. We need to lose it, it will only cause problems."

"But…" Gabriel looked mortally wounded. "It's my ship! I stole it, it's mine now!"

"Well then how else are we going to lose the police or the hired assassins or whoever else is after us?"

"Look, we just need to jump back there, right?" Balthazar said, trying to hurry everyone along to the spaceship by nature of looking urgent. "If the police are coming here, then we can pass them while they're warping."

"See?" Gabriel beamed, tapping the communicator on his wrist and triggering the Impala's doors to open. "No reason to get rid of the little beauty. So let's all bundle in, get back to our own time period, and get on with our lives."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean flashed a quick, reassuring smile to Castiel as they entered the ship. Castiel still looked uncertain. "Hey. At the very least, you'll get to say 'I told you so', right?"

(-*-)

The tension on the bridge was so strong that it could have punched a hole through a Jagulan Sun-tiger, using another Jagulan Sun-tiger. Gabriel glared at the Visi-screens. Sam watched Gabriel. Dean sat in one of the chairs and stared into the middle distance. Balthazar was working steadily to maintain a happily detached drunken buzz, and Castiel was quietly inhaling some sort of fumes in the corner.

"Bobby." Gabriel drummed his fingers against the controls. "Tell me something."

"The police pursuit ship is approaching us through temporal warp at a speed of R7."

"What does that mean?" Dean muttered, as Balthazar leant against his chair.

"Very fast."

"R8…" Bobby grumbled. "Initiating scrambler. R9. R10…"

Everyone seemed to hold their breath.

"Done. They've passed us. Leaving temporal warp."

The relieved group sigh made Dean's head swim. He caught Castiel's eye, and exchanged timid smiles.

"Bobby, you genius!" Gabriel grinned, patting the control panel. "I'll plug you into an AI hotel once we dock up! Castiel, whatever you're smoking, put it out and set a navigation course. Balthazar, you're… about to fall over. Dean! Make yourself useful, check the rear Visi-screen and make sure the coast is clear. Sam, buff yourself up and get to my quarters. We need to have…"

"Let me guess. 'Thank-god-we're-not-incarcerated' sex?" Sam sighed, although he didn't seem all that upset.

"Damn straight." Gabriel shot a winning smile around the bridge as everyone went about their business. "We have once again survived an otherwise perilous situation. Through my brilliant captain-ship, we are once again safe."

"Well, except for the fleet of ships that is waiting behind us."

"Yeah, but we can't… what ships?"

"These ships." Dean pointed at the screen, looking up at Gabriel's sharp tone. "Did you not..? Sorry, I thought you knew about them."

Even Balthazar was suddenly very sober, as Bobby brought the rear Visi-screens up onto the main view. A rather large amount of Rahptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force ships were slowly turning to circle them, each one captained by a characteristically curmudgeonly Dæmon.

"I'm… I'm sorry, fellas," Bobby mumbled, "but it seems they're jamming my circuits with a scrambler signal. I can't get us away."

"Ah." Said Gabriel. "Those ships."

(-*-)

In one of its more sociological entries, _'The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment'_ tells us that throughout history, every major civilisation has passed through three phases. The first is defined as 'survival' (or 'how'), the second as 'enquiry' (or 'why'), and the third as 'sophistication' (or 'where'). It is important to note that, whilst planetary societies or races may take hundreds of years to pass from one phase to the next, a small, isolated community can exemplify this pattern in minutes.

"How did they find us?" Dean stared up at the ships, suddenly understanding what post-traumatic stress really felt like.

"I don't know…" Balthazar rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, running a hand over his chin. "Maybe they tracked our temporal wavelength signature, like the police did."

"Why are they after us?" Gabriel glared at the Earth man and his semi-cousin indignantly. "I'm on a lot of people's lists, but I'm pretty sure I never crossed a Dæmon."

"Incoming transmission." Bobby sounded more than a little embarrassed at landing them in their current predicament.

"Yeah… um, accept." Castiel shrugged, looking around. "Well, where else will we get answers from?"

The visi-screen gave way to an image of Prostetnic Dæmon Crowley, who grinned into the camera like the smug bastard that he was.

"Prime Minister Angeles."

"Yeah, hi. Um, listen, my companions and I just had a large lunch, and now we've got a pressing appointment to be… anywhere else. So if you wouldn't mind un-scrambling our equipment…"

"I am very sorry." Crowley smiled, before laughing. "Oh, who am I kidding? No I'm not. Listen, you seem like a rather enjoyable group, and I'm sure if I were to meet you all somewhere more casual, I would almost definitely think about not killing you."

"You're too kind." Balthazar scowled. Crowley ignored him, preferring instead to consult a computer screen.

"I just need a small favour, then I'll make sure that you're let go. Which of you gents is 'Dean Winchester'?"

"Me." Dean held his hand up, feeling very uncomfortable as Crowley's jet-black eyes flicked over him.

"Really? Well, I have to say, I don't see what all the fuss is about myself, but very well. Dean Winchester, the Rhaptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force have been asked to secure your loyalty and employment under Misters Michael and Lucifer Mouse. You've been headhunted, if you like. Will you please approach your ship's teleportation bay and beam over to us."

"Well…" Gabriel blinked. "Nice knowing you, Earth man."

"No!" Dean yelled, staring at him. "What the hell, dude, I'm not going over there!"

"Gabriel, that's too far." Castiel seemed just as annoyed as Dean, as he glared his semi-cousin down. Dean smiled thankfully at him. Gabriel looked to Balthazar.

"Oh come on, cousin. No one deserves the sort of treatment they'll give him."

"I see." Crowley sighed, "It will be put on record that you have declined our offer… As such, we will be destroying your ship and plucking you from the wreckage."

"What?" The group spoke as one. Even Sam sounded shocked.

"You lying dick!" Gabriel yelled. "You said you'd let us go!"

"No, Mister Angeles, I said I'd be sure to let you go. In the same way The Planet Earth was let go." Crowley flashed an insincere. "A pleasure meeting you, Prime Minister. Prepare to be streamlined."

The transmission cut out. Balthazar looked at Castiel. Castiel looked at Dean. Dean looked at Gabriel. Gabriel looked at Sam.

"Well…" Said Sam. "That's really depressed me."

(-*-)

Dean stared at his watch, and laughed bitterly. Castiel blinked at him.

"What?"

"We're at five minutes to midnight." Dean said, gaining blank looks form everyone but Sam. "Sorry… earth humour."

"No, we got it." Balthazar sighed. "It was just an awful joke… Well, I managed to cheat immolation for, what, seven or eight hours? I hope I gave you a good trip space-side, Dean."

"Hey, guys?" Bobby's voice cut over the speakers, so businesslike and snappy that one could almost think they weren't almost certainly going to die. "If you saps want to stop throwing yourselves a pity party for the… approximately two minutes we have before the Dæmon ships open fire, can I suggest something that might just save your sorry asses? Not that you deserve it…"

"Bobby?" Gabriel stared at the speakers, hope gleaming in his eyes.

"If you numbskulls can make your way to the escape pods, I could have enough power to jettison them if we were to run Leap of Faith warp drive. Only thing is, someone would have to stay behind to initiate it."

Everyone eyed everyone else, wondering if they were all thinking the same thing. Then they cautiously eyed Gabriel, who did not seem to be on the same page. Then, they eyed Sam.

"No." Gabriel shook his head. "If we're going to get rid of someone, we may as well hand Dean over to the Dæmons. How is leaving Sam here to be immolated any different?"

"I'm not a living organism, Gabriel." Sam sighed. If I stay behind, there is a slim probability that I'll survive."

"How slim?"

Sam stared at the floor.

"How slim, Sam?"

"Approximately two to the power of nine million, seven hundred and eighty nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine to one against."

Gabriel stared at him.

"You're not doing it."

"No one else can. And besides, it'll be a good way to stop the pain in all the diodes down my left hand side."

"You best go, if you're going." Bobby said, as the air around them started to crackle with electricity. On the Visi-screens, the Rhaptoor ships began to glow ominously as they gained energy, their weapons ready to fire. The screens crackled with static and cut out.

"Come on." Castiel nodded, stumbling to his feet.

It all happened in rather a dramatic manner. The speakers started playing feedback, crackling with noise and static as the ring of ships surrounding them began to barrage them with excess energy. Balthazar was dragging a practically comatose Gabriel along the corridor. Dean stumbled along, the floor shaking beneath him, very aware that he had already lost his birth home, and was now about to lose a potential replacement before he'd even gotten to know it. The sounds of static and feedback were drowning out pretty much everything everyone said as they stumbled towards the escape pods.

"Each pod…" Castiel shouted over the noise, "takes two people. We need to know…"

The ship jolted violently, causing Dean and Balthazar to both lose their balance and stumble forward.

Meanwhile, on the bridge, Sam heaved a sigh and glanced down at his shiny metal hands. He'd never said anything to Gabriel, because he'd guessed it would sound ungrateful, but he'd always felt kind of like he was an abomination in his metal body. His human consciousness had been so contradicted by the machine's programming, so upgraded and honed, that he didn't really work as a human any more.

And people wondered why he was depressed.

Sam clenched the fingers on his left hand as the odd pain shot through the diodes in his left hand side.

Here he was, brain he size of a small moon, and he was putting his survival on the incredibly slim possibility that he might survive, while the humans ran off to save their skins.

It was better than being asked to take hitchhikers up to the bridge.

He reached out and pushed the Leap of Faith button. A bolt of energy passed through the ship, causing the ship to convulse and twist as it tried simultaneously to move and stay still. The escape pods leapt from their moorings, before blinking to a set of coordinates randomly generated by the Leap of Faith drive. The Rhaptoor ships let loose their fire, tearing the ship to pieces.

(-*-)

Dean tried hard not to be sick as the capsule sped its way through time and space, very aware that G-force was playing with his stomach and brain the way a baker played with a bowlful of dough. It came to a quick, sudden jolting stop, before tumbling over so that the ceiling quickly became the floor.

"Urgh." Dean groaned, as he pulled himself up to his feet. "Hey… are you ok?"

"Yes…" Castiel groaned, having tumbled down next to Dean. "I'll be fine. I hope Balthazar and Gabriel had a… slightly smoother landing."

Castiel opened a panel in the wall of the pod, before tapping at the newly exposed buttons.

"Atmosphere is stable. We can have a look around, if you want."

"Sure." Dean shrugged, as Castiel forced open the pod door and led the way outside. He glanced once more at his watch, realising it was five minutes past twelve. "Thank god it's Friday…"


	10. Chapter 10

Wherever it was that Dean and Castiel had crashed, it was very dark and very cold. Dean shivered as he felt a chill fog creeping around his ankles. He peered around the darkness.

"So… how do you think Gabriel and Balthazar…"

"Dean." Castiel sighed, levelling him with a tired stare. "You have to learn, there is a system of etiquette when travelling through space. It says that, if you lose your companions to almost certain death, you don't talk about it."

"Oh." Dean almost awkwardly rested a hand on Castiel's shoulder, but he backed off at the last moment. "Really?"

"Yes, and we get blind drunk about it at our earliest convenience. First, we have to figure out where we are… Do you have a lighter?"

"Oh sure." Dean reached into his pocket and produced the cigarette lighter Balthazar had given him in the hold of the rhaptoor ship all those hours ago. "Wait, you're not making another bong, are you?"

"No, I need some light. I want to see where we are." Castiel flicked the lighter on and gazed around in the small circle of light. He kind of wished he hadn't.

"Wow…"

(-*-)

The Bloody Invaluable Book has this to say on the subject of lighters: There is nothing, it says, so fundamentally useful as the common portable lighter. Not only because it can help you start fires to warm yourselves on the arctic desert planets of Betelgeuse nine, or because you can use it to signal to other nearby travellers, melt and fuse wires, give yourself light to see by, heat to eat by, cauterise wounds, and light cigarettes, but also because any non-hitchhiking person will, when asking for a light to do one or more of the above, become so awed by the fact that you have one that they will instantly assume that you also have any number of domestic items from a pocket knife to small change to a travel-sized wash kit. The effect of this assumption means that they will of course lend you anything you ask for, as you give the air of someone who knows exactly where all of their possessions are and what became of them, thus making you a reliable individual.

There is some discrepancy between those who follow the word of the Bloody Invaluable Book and those who follow another, older guide as to whether the cigarette lighter or the towel is more useful to have in your pack if you intend to hitchhike across the universe. Most hitchhikers pack both, just to be on the safe side, but die-hard followers of the old guide claim they need only their towels. Die-hard followers of the Bloody Invaluable Book, however, wait until the guide followers are waving their towels around in pride before using their fundamentally useful portable lighters to set fire to them. This proves nothing, but it has given rise to a new faction of people who argue that the most useful item a hitchhiker can have is a first aid kit.

(-*-)

Castiel rooted around in the escape capsule's wiring panel, under the light that Dean held for him.

"Well that explains it…"

"Explains what?"

"Our capsule caught the end of the Leap of Faith drive, and we blinked through time as well as space. It explains how we got inside what seems to be another ship."

"How far back?" Dean looked around the shadowy cavern they seemed to be in, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light. They seemed to be inside some sort of ossuary; rows and towers of what looked like coffins lined the walls around them. His breath fogged in front of his face, and he focused on that. If this was another space ship, it was a cold and creepy one.

"About two hundred million years, give or take the odd twenty-four hours."

"Great." Dean growled, getting the sinking feeling that it might still be Thursday after all. "So do you know where we are?"

Castiel paused for a moment, disentangling himself from the escape pod's wiring.

"Inside another ship."

"Helpful."

"That's the most accurate I can be." Castiel smiled his slightly unhinged smile at Dean. "So… you see all the frozen coffins too, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He flashed Dean another, slightly more worried smile, before cuffing him on his shoulder. "Let's go look around."

Dean nodded, and followed into a corridor that seemed to be made of white plastic and metal sheeting, but that was thankfully warmer and not covered in coffins. They picked a direction, and began to wander.

"So, what do we do now?" Dean smiled awkwardly. "I mean, it's not like I have a home or a life or… or anything more than what I've got on me right now."

"And you're dealing with that surprisingly well, given that you're a human. But… I don't know." Castiel shrugged, his hands in his pockets. "What were you doing before?"

"Following Balthazar."

"Ah…" Castiel sighed, letting his smile drop only for a moment. "Well, I suppose you can follow me for now. But I should warn you; half the time I have no clue where I'm going."

As if to punctuate his point, Castiel rounded a corner and walked straight into a rather large, uniformed man with a rather large, nasty looking gun. Castiel smiled. The uniformed man did not.

Meanwhile, on the bridge of the ship, a young woman sat at the central console, typing furiously at the keys. A meek, uniformed man approached her, his boots clicking together as he did.

"Um… Captain?"

The woman yelped and hastily exited whatever it was she had been typing, blushing as she spotted her second in command.

"Yes, Number One?"

"Number Two has another one of those report thingies he's so intent on. Says he's caught some prisoners."

"Oh." The captain thought for a moment. "Good. Maybe that'll keep his quiet for a bit."

"He says he wants to interrogate them."

"Oh… do I have to be there for that?"

"Probably. Maybe. I don't know."

"Ugh." The captain sighed, her blonde ponytail bobbing happily as she shook her head. "Fine. Tell him to bring them here, I suppose."

"Yes ma'am."

Captain Becky Rosen tore her eyes reluctantly away from the computer screen as she watched her Number One march smartly over to the bay doors and summon the head of the guard. Whatever; she could touch type. Struck by inspiration, she started up a new text document and started conjuring the image of Number One, a slight but smart young man, new on the job and nervous, turning to his senior officer Number Two, a jaded, angry professional, for guidance, support and maybe something more.

She really was getting bored, if she was reduced to writing about them.

"Ma'am." Number two saluted smartly, before stepping aside to reveal two men she'd never seen before. Silently, her eyes sparkled as she started up another new text file. Number Two, if he had noticed his Captain's mad writing, ignored her and continued jabbing at the captives with the business end of his gun. Becky bit back a smile as she saw this stuff writing itself.

"I found these 'ere stowaways…"

"We're not stowaways…" The burlier of the two men interjected, stepping slightly between the skinnier man and Number Two's harsh, unyielding glare. Protective, Becky thought, and brave.

"You will speak when spoken to!" Number Two barked, before turning back to his captain. "Shall I rough 'em up a little, ma'am? Interrogate them?"

"For what? What information do you need out of them?"

Number Two blinked, before approaching her warily.

"Well, ma'am… it's just… you see, I've never actually had any prisoners of my own before and, well… I'm not really sure…"

Becky patted his arm, and smiled reassuringly.

"Why don't you ask them if they'd like a drink?"

"Ah." He nodded. "Very good. You! Yes you, twitchy one who looked like he's been dragged through a hedge! Drink?"

"I don't…"

"WOULD YOU LIKE A DRINK, YOU MISERABLE MAGGOT?"

"Yes! Please! Uh… Sir."

"And what about you, city boy, drink?"

"Uh, yes… sir."

"Coffee?"

"What?"

"COFFEE?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, thanks…"

"Sugar?"

"Uh, actually, do you have any low calorie sweetener? It's just…"

"OI! I am asking the questions here, you miserable…"

"Yes." Becky pinched the bridge of her nose, before resuming typing. "Thank you Number Two, that will be all."

"Oh…" The stern, military man nodded, but didn't quite manage to hide his disheartened smile. "Very good, ma'am. I'll just…" He nodded, pointed to the door and stood to attention in front of it. Dean and Castiel watched the strange man for a moment, before looking up at the apologetically smiling Captain.

"He's very good at his job... I think. Would help if I could remember exactly what his job was, but… Well, anyway." She shrugged, before returning her attention to her computer screens. "Make yourselves at home, I guess."

Castiel had woken up on a lot of ships, in a lot of different states of mind, and in differing proximity to the phrase "in flagrante", but normally there was somewhat more competency than this.

"Thank you… captain. Um, By the way, we were curious, why do you have a hold full of frozen coffins?"

"Coffins?" Becky blinked, before laughing. "Oh! No, they're not coffins, they're cryo-chambers. We're part of a fleet. We're relocating our home planet because… Because… oh, don't tell me. There was abig catastrophe that meant it was unliveable… Number one, can you remember what it was?"

"No, ma'am." Number one smiled awkwardly. "It made perfect sense at the time, though."

"Yeah, I remember thinking that." Becky shrugged.

"Really?" Castiel cast a glance over the visi-screens, before exchanging looks with Dean. "There, um… there don't seem to be any other ships nearby."

"No, we went first." Becky sighed, her fingers already back to tapping across the keyboard. "They said they wanted us to go first and make sure everything's ready. We're the start-up crew."

"Right." Castiel was getting a horrible feeling about this, and he was pretty sure it wasn't just the DTs. "And your crew consists of..?"

"Amateur writers. Amateur politicians… all the opinionated people who said we could do better if we were given the chance."

"And very nice of them to give us it." Shouted Number Two, saluting. Dean and Castiel exchanged worried glances.

"So…" Said Dean. "You're the fraction of the population who spend all their time trolling each other on the internet. And your planet said you should go and start things up for them."

"Yes."

"And they sent you first?"

"Yes."

"To avoid a horrible catastrophe?"

"Yes. The planet was… I think it was going to explode or something."

"Ok." Castiel nodded, before putting on his very best terrified smile. "If you could just drop us off at your earliest convenience…"

"Oh! I'd love to, but I'm afraid I can't." Beck was already back to typing at a hundred words a minute. "Our co-ordinates were locked in before we left. We don't stop 'til we get there."

"Oh." Dean was now catching whatever sense of dread Castiel had. "So, when will you be landing?"

"We… don't know. Soon, hopefully."

"Right. Soon… So when you land…"

"Crash."

"Sorry, what?" Dread was fast leading to panic for our two intrepid (if reluctant) heroes.

"Crash. We were actually programmed to… crash… into the planet." Becky blinked, and looked up from her computer screen. "You know, now I say it out loud, it sounds kind of weird, but…"

"There was a very good reason at the time." Number One chipped in.

"Yes, it was a very good reason, I just… I just can't remember…"

"You're all useless and insane?" Dean suggested, earning himself a punch in the arm from Castiel.

"I think…" He muttered, trying to ignore how Becky seemed more interested in them the closer they stood together, "we need to go make our capsule work. Hopefully before the crashing, burning and dying."


	11. Chapter 11

The Bloody Invaluable Book has this to say on the planet of Golgafrincham:

It was, the book says, the most marvellous, the most artistic, the most culturally evolved of all planets. It had art, poetry and prose which made lesser planets weep, mostly due to its inspiring mountain ranges, its myriad flowers, and its general breath taking beauty. But, as art marched along, so did industry and commerce. Within a century, Golgafrincham was a mess of steel, glass and other business-like materials, as they amassed in beautiful cities to produce beautiful business mergers and run the beautiful stock exchange. However, with all this jaw-droppingly beautiful business and commerce, the people, as a whole, lost their edge for creative arts. When there was a creative renaissance, it was no longer placed at the hands of those who had studied and practiced for years upon years; anyone who wanted to be an artist could. And it wasn't until it was too late that they realised this was not necessarily a good idea.

What was a good idea, they decided, was to rid themselves of this problematic faction of their society. These were people who were not skilled at arts or commerce, but really, honestly believed not only that they were, but that they could have done better than the people in charge. Thus, an idea was formed. The heads of the art world combined with the heads of the business world, who in turn outsourced to the every day workers, and as such a story was told. A story so subtle, so believable, and so utterly false, that as it was spread and retold, it changed into the spoken word equivalent of a hydra. Documented interpretations include "the planet was about to be eaten by a giant star-goat", "The planet is going to turn itself inside out", "The planet is about to be sucked into a black hole", "Croatoan virus" and "someone opened a container of ancient evil without reading the manual first". When a massive web of lies and falsehoods concerning the planet's imminent doom was in place, the useless "we could do better" faction were bundled into a ship and told that it was a far, far greater thing they did now than anyone had ever done, and weren't they lucky to be given a chance.

Once the ship had left, the people of Golgafrincham rejoiced in the knowledge that they could safely visit an art gallery, or watch a political debate, or browse the internet without being confronted by hacks, trolls or half-assers. Then, unfortunately (and, writers of the Bloody Invaluable Book are legally bound to say, entirely unconnected to the initiation of the Impala's Leap of Faith drive over the planet's atmosphere), an archaeologist opened a container of ancient evil without first reading an instruction manual, which released the Croatoan virus and turned the planet inside out, before summoning from the void of space a giant star-goat which promptly ate the planet before ejecting it into a black hole. At last report, the goat is still fine.

(-*-)

Groaning, weary creatures pulled themselves out of the primordial swamp, gasping and struggling as their lungs took in the unfamiliar atmosphere. The primitive jungle planet accepted the new life wordlessly. The current occupants scattered quietly across the planet, few knew of the event. Slime spread across their faces, writhing in agony as they acclimatised themselves to forces such as gravity and friction, the new life fell slumped on the virgin grass.

"I really hope I saved file before we crashed…"

(-*-)

After the Golgafrincham ark ship crashed, Dean and Castiel made their excuses and left the survivors to it. They decided their time would be much better spent ignoring the raving loonies and exploring this strange new planet, which stretched out before them in untouched, natural beauty. Castiel said he had a feeling the continents were still shifting, but that may have been the effects of the pills he took from the Golgafrincham medical bay.

The ultimate end goal was to find somewhere that Castiel's SOS device would get enough signal to send out a beacon, but Dean wasn't too worried about being thrown all over space any time soon. After possibly the most manic time of his life (he still wasn't sure he'd only been in space for twenty four hours, regardless of what his watch said), he was happy to explore this strange yet oddly familiar planet and pretend he was Indiana Jones for a while. A while was, at his last estimation, about a year and a half.

They had picked west, as a direction, and when they ran out of land they started walking down the coast. Food and water were plentiful enough, if they were careful, and they were helped along by the indigenous, ape-like natives who would often leave fruits and berries for them which were safe to eat, before quietly shuffling back into the small huts and shelters they lived in. From their body language it was clear; Dean and Cas only got food on the understanding that there was no further interaction. It was a sort of pre-emptive peace offering. They had noticed, though, as they travelled, decidedly fewer and fewer of the primitive natives, and decidedly more and more of the Golgafrinchams. The shift in population seemed oddly ominous to Castiel, and naggingly familiar to Dean.

"Shit…" Castiel sighed, as they trekked up a hill, for no reason other than that it was there. "This is like the detox course from hell…"

"Yeah, exercise will do that to you." Dean stopped for a moment, stretching his tired muscles. He reached into the pockets of his tattered and mud-stained trousers and took out two of Castiel's empty pill bottles which were now serving as water bottles as Cas didn't trust Dean to tan and clean an animal bladder drinking pouch. Actually, they had yet to hunt or kill their own meat, often being left some by the quiet, hut-dwelling natives, so issues of what to do with the hide or offal was irrelevant.

"Come on, we're nearly at the top of the hill."

"What's at the top of the hill?"

"I have no idea. Probably a stunningly beautiful view."

"Oh." Castiel sighed. "Another one of those."

"Come on." Dean slapped Castiel's arm, smiling at him. "We can do some yoga when we're up there. That's what you were going on about at that community centre, right? 'Lands untouched by human hands, imagine your spirit centre' and all that crap?"

Castiel started walking behind him, slight guilt troubling his features.

"Actually, since we're stuck here and we probably will be for a while, I guess I should maybe tell you about that… What I taught everyone in that class wasn't yoga."

"It wasn't? Sure looked like yoga…"

"No. It was… it was the ancient mating ritual of my people."

Dean stopped walking for a moment, stared at Cas, realised he was being serious, and then carried on walking.

"Oh." He said.

"Yes… it's to do with flexibility and fitness, to exemplify who would be most fulfilling as a partner."

"Huh." He said. "Well, I guess that explains why you made a pass at me, if I was a potential mate."

"No, I made a pass at you because I thought you were attractive. I was sad you didn't come back because you were a potential mate."

"Ah. Well, hey, for what it's worth, if I hadn't been with Lisa… or had a massive bout of food poisoning, I probably would have."

"Good to know." Castiel said, as they reached the crest of the hill. Dean had been right; it was another frankly flabbergasting view. Grassy, wooded hills and valleys stretched out around them before fading down towards the sea. The human and the betelgeusian stood there, letting the breathtaking view do its job and take their breath away.

"Dean?" Castiel asked, not quite managing to tear his eyes away from the view.

"Yeah?"

"When you said 'you would have', was that about coming back or about taking me up on that pass I made at you?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas, scratching at the thick beard he had gotten (Cas had mocked him for his human hairiness; apparently aliens can grow hair only if they choose to).

"Well, I'm not with Lisa, and I don't have food poisoning. And before Earth ended, I was not intending to take up Yoga, legit or not."

"Huh." Cas nodded. "So… you wouldn't say no, if I asked?"

Dean thought.

"No."

"Oh."

Then, Dean found himself suddenly with his mouth full of someone else's tongue, and was not entirely unhappy with the situation. His feelings towards it only improved when he felt Castiel's hands wrapping around him, fumbling to rid them both of the shredded, stained vestiges of clothes that they still wore.

"You don't mess around, huh?" Dean laughed, as he let Castiel pull him to the ground. Cas was already on his back, his hands trailing over Dean's chest.

"The amount of wormholes, time travel and cryochambers I've been through… I did the math, it translates to something like five earth years since I've had a good lay."

"Wow." Dean muttered, trailing his lips across Castiel's neck, glancing down to note that, at least anatomically, humans and betelgeusians weren't all that different. "So, no pressure."

"Just hurry up." Castiel grunted, pulling Dean closer.

The presence of such a personal scene in the otherwise quite impersonal chronicling of Dean Winchester's life may seem gratuitous to some; this is, after all, the story of _'The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment' _ and, while the Book has many things to say on the subject of sex (see pages 2, 7, 9, 39, 66-67, 69, 99, 100 through to 700 inclusive, 3,000, 3,950 and pretty much the rest of the book), the sexual intercourses between Dean and Castiel may not instantly be seen as important to such a story. The unknowing reader could very easily make the assumption that such a scene was only included to promote further interest, as the trifling matters of physical relationships have rarely, if ever, produced anything of cosmic importance.

This assumption is, however, very wrong, as Castiel is about to find out.

"Oh god…" He groaned, writhing under Dean. His back arched as he stared out at the beautiful (if upside-down) view of sweeping valleys, domed hills and paths of rivers, fault lines and natural erosion that stretched between them. "Oh god…"

"That's right." Dean muttered, enjoying himself rather a lot, as is to be expected.

"Oh my God! Dean!"

"Yeah that's…"

"No, Dean, look!" Castiel pointed, before shoving Dean off him and flipping over onto his front. He was crouched down, staring into the distance and creeping Dean out a little bit.

"Cas, if you wanted to change positions…"

"No, Dean, look!" Castiel grabbed Dean's arm and pulled him down so he was crouching exactly where Castiel had been, moments before. "Can you see it?"

Dean saw it. And he had no idea how to react.

It was, from a certain angle, the sight that told them not only what planet they were on, but exactly how much of a problem they had on their hands. There, spread across the prehistoric hills of San Francisco through the use of meandering streams, fault lines and natural erosion, was the signature of one 'ShurleyBurlfast'.

"Shit." Dean said, because he really didn't know what else to say. "So this is… Earth."

"We're on Earth. Earth from about sixty million years before the end, maybe, but Earth none the less."

"But that means the natives… the Neanderthals, I guess… they're dying out. We have to help them?"

"Why?" Castiel sat back, running a hand over his face. "No point. The Golgafrinchams are here now."

"But, if they die out…"

"Face it, Dean. The quiet, understanding, simple creatures aren't the ones you evolved from. The bunch of wannabe politicians who we left because they were actually trying to reinvent the wheel? Those are your ancestors."

"But… But… no. No, that can't be right."

"It is."

"Society, my society can't come from that."

"It can, Dean. Because we've seen it. We've both seen it, we've both been there, and we know how it'll end."

"But…" Dean trailed off, before throwing himself back on the grass and covering his face with his hands. "Shit. I mean… so it's all for nothing, right? Even the whole meaning of life computer matrix stuff, it doesn't even matter. Since they've turned up, they've messed with it. The ultimate question is going to die with the Neanderthals who can't tell anyone."

"Yeah." Castiel sighed. Then, he sat up straight and stared at Dean. "No… wait, it's possible… you might not have the right question, but you might have a mutation of it. A variant. If we could find some way to look into your subconscious…"

"What's the point?" Dean sighed, staring up at the sky.

"No, that doesn't fit. 'What's the point?' 'Yellow'. Try again."

"No, Cas, I mean… the answer is "Yellow". Whatever the hell the question was, it's not something I'm going to be able to figure out here and now."

"No, come on." Castiel grabbed his clothes and started pulling them on as he stumbled down the hill. Reluctantly, Dean followed him.

And so it resulted that Dean did not finish having sex with Castiel on top of a hill in prehistoric San Francisco (a fact that annoyed him rather a lot), but instead ended up sat in a cave somewhere, with Castiel holding piles of dried leaves in his bundled up shirt. Dean had written letters on each leaf until he felt like he'd done enough, and now Dean was supposed to pull them out without looking.

"This is stupid."

"Just… humour me. Go on."

"Fine… The first letter is… W."

"Right. Put it down on the floor."

"Next… H, A, T…"

"'What'! It's working!"

"C, O, L, O."

"Or maybe not…"

"U, R, I, S."

"Uris. Is it Latin? Colo Uris… Oh! What Colour Is! It is working, it's just spelled in queen's English. Keep going."

"T, H, E… Cas, can you not grab my ass?"

"Sorry. It's getting exciting."

"M, O, S, T, L, I, K, E, L, Y… Most likely."

"What colour is the most likely…"

"T, O, G, R, E, E, T…"

"To greet…"

"Y, O, U."

"You. 'What colour is the most likely to greet you…' well? Keep going!"

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"No more letters."

Castiel blinked down at the lines of leaves on the floor.

"What colour is the most likely to greet you? Yellow."

"I think I got that in a joke book from my uncle when I was five."

"I don't get it."

"You know, it sounds like "hello"."

"No, not that. I mean… all that for a really bad joke?"

"Eh." Dean shrugged. "I always thought whoever ran the universe must have a messed up sense of humour."

Cas laughed. Dean laughed. They ended up laughing so much that they fell over, and sat gasping for breath on the floor.

"Oh, man." Dean said, kicking the leaves aside as he stumbled to his feet. "C'mon, let's go get some food."

And they did. They looked out over the untouched, undeveloped but ultimately doomed landscape of prehistoric Earth, and they saw that is was good. And, in considering the six million years the planet had left, they realised that maybe finding the question didn't matter so much after all.


	12. Chapter 12

Fit the Second: Excitement, adventure and Dean-related things.

There is a theory which states that, if anyone ever figures out exactly what the point of the universe is, it will instantly cease to exist and be replaced by something all together more confusing.

There is a second theory which states that this has already happened.

There is yet a third theory, which states that the first two theories are entirely too grim, and anyone who believes them should probably loosen up and have a beer or two. And if they should happen to want to know exactly where the best beers are served, they should buy a copy of the '_Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment'_, which will provide them with the answers to all their questions.

There is a fourth theory, which states that the third theory was put about as a subversive attempt at advertising by the book's editors to sell more copies. This fourth theory is now widely accepted as fact.

(-*-)

Ursa-Minor is, quite possibly, the most disgusting planet in the entire universe. Not only is it filled with sleazy, schmoozy, executive types who all have more wildly exciting lives than you, it is also hideously sunny, terrifyingly rich and, frankly, obscenely well run. It is a sleek, well-oiled corporate machine in which everyone looks devastatingly handsome thanks to the fact that they all wear suits, and so filled with executive treats and getaways that, when a recent edition of the gossip magazine "StarShout" published the article "If You're Tired of Working In Ursa-Minor, You Must Be Tired With Life", the planet's population halved overnight, and for once a stock market crash wasn't to blame.

"StarShout", a thoroughly useful journal which keeps people informed, opinionated and stocked on toilet paper, has much to answer for, in this respect. The most recent edition hosts (among new dietary regimes, gossip concerning the recent sightings of shamed celebrities at CelestiWays restaurant, and a seventeen page long horoscope in which one can cross-reference their prediction from the constellations of seven separate planets and still get an entirely vague and useless fortune) is a poll concerning the popularity of the now Ex-Prime Minister of the Universe, Gabriel Angeles. This poll was put about to commemorate the utterly unpredictable man, as he is missing, presumed dead after the Impala, which he famously stole, was incinerated by a Rhaptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force. It is for this reason that the short man with a hat and dark glasses is really hoping no one notices him as he walks down one of the many sleek, white streets of Ursa-Minor.

"You look ridiculous." Balthazar said, glaring at his semi-cousin.

"Shh. If I can get people to think I'm dead for long enough, the charges against me will be dropped." He shot Balthazar a significant glance over the top of his glasses. "Sure, I won't be prime minister any more, but I've cooled on that job anyway."

Balthazar rolled his eyes and let Gabriel get on with whatever insanity he was fixed on. He scowled up at the streets upon streets of metal and glass high-rises.

"Doesn't it make you sick?"

"What?"

"This place… Look at that big one up there, with all the sculptures and pointy bits."

"You mean spires?"

"Loath as I am to call them that, yeah. You know what that is? It's the office of the Book."

"What book?"

"The Bloody Invaluable Book. It used to be about reliability, and guiding people. Helping them. I mean, if a book has "You Are Loved" written in arcing script on the front cover, you'd think they'd have some kind of integrity."

"So?" Gabriel shrugged. "This is the price of success, right?"

"Is it? Look around. This planet is populated by corporate douchebags. They've probably never hitched a lift in their lives; if they stuck their thumbs out, their hands would fall off."

"I say again, so?"

"You know they have their own virtual parallel universes in their offices? They can start up their own universe so they can research without ever having to leave the building. It's not right."

"Oh, you're just moping because you got the poorly paid field research job."

"Forget it." Balthazar shrugged, staring around at the corporate paradise. Dean probably would have loved it here. He wondered where they were, Dean and Castiel.

Gabriel punched him on the arm.

"C'mon, let's go see these fat-cats, if you're so bent out of shape about it."

"What?"

"Yeah, let's go see them."

Gabriel started off towards the imposing tower of glass and steel.

"No, wait… Gabriel, wait! If anyone sees me in there, they'll want to know why I haven't submitted an article in…"

"Biiiiiiitch, bitch-bitch-bitch. You're worse than Sam. Come on."

They wandered into the lobby of the offices for the Bloody Invaluable Book, heads low and trying not to look suspicious. Luckily, everyone else seemed to be nose down in a personal organiser, so that helped them a little. As they approached the reception desk, noise from a Sub-Ether news report trickled back to them.

"… and how are you, welcome to the around-the-clock, around the galaxy, Sub-Ether News Frequency. Remember, other frequencies may be more accurate, but no one else scares you shitless with such relentless passion!"

"Oh god," Gabriel groaned, rolling his eyes behind his dark glasses. "Listening to hack news in the offices of a hack rag… if my mother could see me now…"

"Which mother?" Balthazar hissed back. The news report continued.

"Reports have just reached us that Gabriel Angeles, ex-Prime Minister and professional conman, is missing, presumed dead. That's right folks, lock up your no doubt grief-stricken daughters, sons, and household appliances; the big G could be the big D-E-A-D. We speak with his brain-care specialist, Doctor Ash Bahdas. Ash?"

"Gabriel? He was just some dude who wanted to party."

"Could this have been a publicity stunt?"

"Could be, dude. Then again, who knows?"

"What about these reports that say his ship was incinerated by a Daemon task force?"

"Gabriel does what Gabriel wants, you know? If he wants to get killed, he won't do it by halves."

"And what of these reports that say he is, and I quote here, "one hundred percent utterly, bloody dead"?"

"Who knows, man? Who knows?"

"Thank you, Doctor Bahdas. Now for reports from the outer rim of the galaxy. Incoming from the western arm, we believe that…"

"Good to know my death has been treated tastefully and with due respect." Gabriel scowled, tapping on the desk. "Buddy, can you turn that off?"

The receptionist was a ball of octopus-shaped light, who did not appear too pleased to be addressed as anyone's "buddy". He looked oddly familiar to Gabriel.

"I'll thank you not to comment on my radio. Please take a number and sit down."

"I don't…"

"Sit, or you'll be forcibly ejected."

Gabriel scowled, took a number, and followed Balthazar over to the row of seats.

"God… blown up, presumed dead, stuck on this crappy planet with you and your bitching… this has not been a good day."

(-*-)

Being unhappy is, of course, perfectly natural. A scientist once theorised that, at any point in time, any given person at any point in the galaxy has an exactly fifty percent chance of being unhappy. When asked to prove this theory, he found that the exact number of beings throughout the galaxy who are unhappy at any given time was so phenomenally large that he killed himself through depression before he could publically release his results. Suffice to say, the odds are apparently pessimistically swayed.

Dean Winchester, of course, happens to be very unhappy.

He has many reasons for being unhappy, being the only human left alive after escaping from the planet Earth on the day of its "streamlining" (see article: Corporate demolition) with his good friend Balthazar Angel, who turned out to actually be from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. This was, really, only the start of Dean's troubles, as he was then taken to the ancient planet of Krippketha where he found out that his entire planet had been built as a computer program to determine the meaning of life, and was then made an enemy of the mice who had organised the program. After a brief period of being propelled through time and space, blown up and put in dangerous crash situations, he was stranded, ironically, on a prehistoric Earth with the alien yoga teacher and admittedly rather attractive being, Castiel Angel, Balthazar's brother.

Dean and Castiel, understandably, do not want to be stranded on the prehistoric planet Earth, and so we find them both in the numbers of the galaxy's unhappy people. However, they have found a way to deal with their unfortunate predicament.

They are drunk.

"Panda piss." Castiel slurred, curling up on the sandy ground beside Dean. "There's got to be a way off this planet that doesn't involve getting drunk. Or high. Or having sex."

"You've been saying that for a while now." Dean grumbled back, getting rather annoyed at the cheery sunlight that seemed to bathe their surroundings in a rather obnoxious manner. "Never thought I'd see you get sick of any of those things."

"Oh, I'm not getting sick of it." Castiel sighed. "Believe me. Took me two years to figure out how to ferment things, seventeen months to figure out what plants would get me high and not kill me…" He rolled over onto his front, crawling over Dean as he reached the gall bladder pouch they kept all their alcohol in, "and far too long to get you to fuck me. I'm not getting sick of it for a while yet, I just wish we weren't on this stupid planet any more."

He drained the remnants out of the drinking pouch, crawled back over Dean and half collapsed into his side.

"No offence."

"None taken." Dean sighed. "Two years is more than enough staying anywhere that isn't home."

Castiel sat up, eyes narrowed against the sun.

"I think I've got it."

"Shit…" Dean pushed himself up onto his eyes. "Could have told me that before we…"

"No, the answer. The… the way off the planet." He staggered to his feet, pulling Dean up beside him.

"Really? How?"

"It's…" Castiel stumbled a little, the alcohol still very present in his system. "It's lateral thinking. We have to creep up on the problem when it's not looking, and… and… grab it."

"Right…"

"We need to sit down and… and properly think about it. Because whenever we say we're going to, we just end up getting really high, and really drunk…"

"And really laid?"

"That too. But we need to properly figure out a way off this planet."

"Ok." Dean nodded, stepping away from Castiel and doing his shirt up properly. "I'm here."

"So we… What's that noise?"

They looked skyward and gasped, as they saw possibly the most beautiful sight they could have imagined.

There, hanging over their heads, only a few miles above the waterfront, was a spaceship.

"We're saved!" Castiel grinned, wrapping his arms around Dean. "Saved!" He pulled Dean down into a long, passionate kiss, which had them both gulping for air when they parted. Dean grinned at Castiel, hunger in his eyes.

"Wonder if they'd… Hey, where'd it go?"

"What?"

"The ship! It's gone!"

"What?" Castiel leapt away from Dean like he was on fire, scanning the skies desperately. "No, no, no no…"

Dean stared dejectedly at the sky, before resting a gentle hand on Castiel's back.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, I just…" Castiel shied away from Dean's touch, smiling sheepishly. "I'm kind of not in the mood now."

"Yeah. Me neither. But, I suppose we can plan."

"Yes. That's… planning." Castiel stood up straight, glancing out at the sky once more. "Hey, there it is again!"

Sure enough the ship was back. Dean gaped at it.

"How…"

"Hang on…" Castiel squinted at it, before turning to Dean. "Wait, let me try something."

He pulled Dean into another kiss, a deep, passionate kiss that demanded the kisser be taken in a manly fashion then and there, and made Dean's interest (and other things) perk with stimulation. Castiel broke away from the kiss, before looking out to the sky again.

"I knew it!"  
>"What?" Dean managed to whisper.<p>

"The ship… what is this, some kind of intergalactic cock-block?"

"What…"

"Look. Every time we kiss, the ship goes away. Every time we decide we're not in the mood…" Castiel backed off, and Dean really wished he'd cut his crazy ramblings. The ship reappeared.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered. "What is it, an intelligence test?"

"No… No, a test would imply someone was doing it on purpose. It's a… a temporal anol… anonamy… a-nom-a-ly." Castiel sounded out the word, his drunken brain clearly not ready to deal with such an odd situation. "A parallel future paradox. Do you know what I mean?"

"No."

"No, I didn't think you would. Ok…" Castiel cleared his throat, and made efforts to seem more sober than he was. "We are currently at such a point in time where two very different futures lie ahead of us. One, where we sober up and figure out how to get that ship down here, and the other one…"

"Where we keep getting drunk and laid and get stuck here."

"Yeah."

"Damn." Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. "Ok. So let's sober up."

Castiel threw a brief, longing stare at Dean (and various parts of Dean's person) but dutifully looked away.

"We want to get to the first possible future, the one where we figure out how to signal that ship… And we know we need to figure it out, because every time we've decided not to bother, it's disappeared… I wonder what Rufus would do…"

"Rufus?"

"Old hitch-hiking buddy of mine. Very clever guy; gets things done. He's always got a light."

"Well…" Dean watched Castiel sink back to the ground in thought, and wondered whether this conversation would have made any more sense if he wasn't drunk. "That sounds nice."


	13. Chapter 13

Gabriel groaned and let his head fall back as the number counter slowly ticked towards their allocated number. One thing that was not cool and groovy about the otherwise subzero and seriously undulating offices of the Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment was the queuing time. Balthazar nudged his semi-cousin, a look of awkward concern on his features.

"Gabriel?"

"Last time I checked."

"How are you… you know, are you ok? What with… Sam."

"Zarking fardwarks, have you ever heard of subtlety?" Gabriel stared at him, incredulous. "It only happened two days ago!"  
>"Yes, but, the way I see it, that's only in our time line. For all we know, our shuttle could have put us at any historical point, not to mention the relative times of people currently tied to the temporal orbit of any given planet, so really, it could have happened seven billion years ago, historically. Or it might not have happened at all."<p>

"Is this your idea of making me feel better? I'm only asking for classification's sake."

Balthazar tried again, changing tack with an almost audible thud.

"I just meant… I know Sam meant a lot to you, as a… as a human consciousness trapped inside an android skeleton, and I just wanted you to know that, if you need to talk about your feelings… without sharing too much, obviously, because I really don't want to know the sordid details of your frankly perverse objectophilia…"

"Yes, thank you, I get the idea." Gabriel sighed irritably, before sitting upright. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's change the subject, and talk about something that is very close and dear to my heart. Me."

He shuffled around in his chair, so that he could talk more quietly. Balthazar leaned in, intrigued. Gabriel spoke quietly.

"Look, I think us landing on Ursa-Minor Beta, of all the places in the galaxy, really is a total stroke of luck. And I think we should take advantage of it."

"Right…"

"While we were in that shuttle, you remember, before we landed and after you got so tired of my screaming that you knocked me out for seven hours?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I slipped into a deep and lucid coma. I got a message from a person I admire and hold in the highest respect."

"Yourself?"

"Of course. It was a message I'd implanted in my own mind twenty years ago…"

"When you say…"

"Yeah alright, space case, twenty years in my personal timeline. And it was triggered off by the coma. I told myself that the time had come, and that I had to do great things… I had to find this guy I'd never heard of before, and I'd have to look for him on Ursa-Minor Beta, and he'd tell me something so horrible, so much to my disadvantage that it would render my closest held beliefs irrelevant."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Why does that really make me want to find him?"

"I know, right? We have to go find this guy." Gabriel drummed his fingers against the chair arm. "Thanks for… you know, not thinking this is just some manifestation of a psychotic episode."

"Hey, even if it is, it's probably the most entertaining thing I'll see on this planet." Balthazar looked around the lobby, noting that the number counter was still several powers of ten short of reaching their number. Gabriel noted his discomfort and agreed.

"Come on. I'm done with this. Hey!" In one swift movement, Gabriel leapt from his chair, stomped over to the reception desk, and glared straight down at the pink holographic octopus thing that was currently answering three phones at once.

"Zarniwoop. You know him?"

"Yes, sir…" the receptionist filled the word 'sir' with as much contempt as one would usually spread across the entire sentence 'how dare you do such a horrible, detestable thing?'. "Mr Zarniwoop is on the board of directors."

"Brilliant. Get him."

"Well, I'm afraid he's busy at the moment; he's on an intergalactic cruise."

"Damn… when will he be back?"

"Back? Sir, he's in his office."

"What?" Gabriel blinked at the receptionist, before adopting a much more menacing pose as he leant over the desk. "Didn't you just say he was on a cruise."

"Yes sir, he's on an intergalactic cruise in his office. Honestly, do you smelly hitchhikers not understand the most basic uses of Personal Parallel Universe generation?"

Gabriel stared at the receptionist, glanced at Balthazar (who shrugged in a way that suggested he didn't know either), and then punched the reception desk.

"Now you listen up, you S.O.B living jello…"

"Now, sir, there's no need to be insulting! If you could just be cool about it…"

"Cool? Cool? I'm done with cool, you spunk-brained paramecium. I am so 'cool', I go ice fishing to warm up. I am so 'hip' I can bang someone through a wall, and I am so 'groovy' that I can make laserdiscs just by staring intently. Now tell me how to get to Zarniwoop."

"Woah! Just who do you think you are, honey, Gabriel Angeles or something?"

"Yeah, I'll even sign your goddamn book."

The receptionist blinked. The receptionist gaped. Gabriel wished he'd let Balthazar do the talking.

"Mister Prime Minister? Sir? But… but the sub-etha news said… said you were dead."

"Yeah, well, I have it from a very reliable source that they were wrong. Get me Zarniwoop."

"His… his office is on the fifteenth floor, but…"

"But he's on an intergalactic cruise. Right. Where are the elevators?"

The receptionist pointed vaguely toward the far corner of the lobby, shock slowly taking over. Gabriel smiled and marched off, Balthazar quickly striding alongside him.

"Zarniwoop?"

"No idea. He's the guy I told myself I had to go see. Ugh." Gabriel glared at the elevators, which were a brilliant, shining gold, and accompanied by a large plaque that bore the Sirius Cybernetics logo. Balthazar smiled awkwardly.

"I suppose it would be tasteless to call this your "rebound ride", hmm?"

(-*-)

The Bloody Invaluable Book has many things to say on the subject of time travel, most of them wildly contradictory and hugely biased (although really, that's not that different to the rest of the book). But among the rants and ramblings of the many writers for the book, their sits an entire chapter dedicated to the most prevalent, most overwhelming problem of time travel; this is the problem of Grammar.

Becoming one's own grandparent is, contrary to popular belief, not the biggest problem faced by time-travellers. A simple knowledge of one's own family tree, a basic understanding of genetics and a well-adjusted family mentality would smooth out any real issues derived from such a problem anyway. No, the real puzzle is trying to understand exactly how to refer to such a situation to someone who has not travelled just as many years as you.

The problem of grammar derives from the concept of relative time, as what can be two days in one person's timeline can be six billion years in someone else's, given factors such as leaping through time, being tied and becoming accustomed to planetary orbits, natural lifespan and time spent utterly drunk.

If, for example, you are a mortal (and therefore, graced with a finite lifespan) consciousness that has been placed in an immortal (whilst in accordance with the manufacturer's warrantee) robotic body, which as then been catapulted through time and space with an almost reckless abandon, and then taken a huge leap of faith that you might survive something almost utterly insurvivable (say, the total immolation of the ship you happen to be on), it is reasonable to suggest that your personal timeline may well be incredibly out of synch with any other person who had escaped that ship. It would be reasonable to assume that, as your personal timeline would be so out of synch, any eventual reunion with the other escapees would possibly cause you to be quite bitter, resentful and confused, especially if your odds of surviving the insurvivable event were lessened by electing to do the heroic thing and stay behind so as to facilitate everyone else's escape from certain death.

This situation is, of course, merely a hypothetical. Another good example would be the case of Dean Winchester and Castiel Angel, who are currently sat on prehistoric Earth, staring at each other.

"We need a plan."

"Yeah." Dean nodded, his arms across his chest in a slightly defensive positioning. "And we need to not get drunk or make out."

"Yes…" Castiel said, staring out at the ship that hovered silently in the distance. He sighed. "This is going to be a long evening."

(-*-)

"Hello!" The Sirius Cybernetics elevator binged happily at Gabriel and Balthazar. "I am to be your elevator today, and have been designed by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation to carry you swiftly, efficiently and comfortably through the offices of the Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment. If you enjoy the service you receive today, then why not try one of the other…"

"Yeah, that's great." Gabriel snapped, with sarcasm so thick it would fail an IQ test. "Fifteenth floor, please."

The elevator hummed for a moment.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But… have you considered the possibilities of down?"

"No." Balthazar sighed, leaning against the interior wall. "Why?"

"Well, going down seems like a very nice thing to do."

"What's down?"

"The… um… basements. And the boiler room."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Up, please. Now."

"I'd really rather not, if it's all the same…"

"What are you, afraid of heights?" Gabriel scowled, glaring at the speaker. "You're an elevator. Elevate us to the fifteenth floor, now."

"Look, it's not that I'm afraid, I just don't want to go up. I can see that it won't end well."

"You can see?" Gabriel repeated incredulously. The elevator hummed again, sounding more worried this time.

"All Sirius Cybernetics elevators are made with the ability to see into the future. It allows us to arrive at a floor before we are needed, thus cutting down on any annoying wait times… and I can see what is going to happen on the fifteenth floor, and frankly I want no part of it."

"Oh come on." Gabriel growled, casting an exasperated stare around the elevator. "We've got to get to Zarniwoop!"

"Zarniwoop?" The elevator repeated. "He's not worth it. Why don't you just hide with me in the basement…"

"Not worth it? Listen, I am recently single and not happy about it, so why don't you be a good little AI and just do what I'm asking you to do?"

Balthazar, worried for his semi-cousin's sanity and the likelihood that they'd get arrested if he tried to kill an elevator, placed a firm hand on Gabriel's shoulder.

"Look, maybe… maybe we can go and see Zarniwoop some other day. Maybe we should relax."

"No, Balthazar. I need to do this. If I don't do this then I'll just mope around thinking about Sam and I can't let myself do that, ok?"

There was a long, awkward silence. The elevator cleared its throat circuits.

"If you don't mind my asking… who is Sam?"

(-*-)

Modern elevators are strange and complex machines, and have been granted precognition (to avoid leaving people waiting for an elevator), intelligence (to provide meaningful, helpful directions around the building) and, most recently, the vote (because if they have to talk politics with the people they carry up and down buildings, the least people could do in return was given them a chance to have their say). It is believed that the election of Gabriel Angeles to the role of Prime Minister of the universe was not attributed to the Elevator vote. For more information on the increasing political influence of the Elevator community, see entry seven hundred and twenty nine of the Bloody Invaluable Book.

(-*-)

"Alright." The elevator sighed, as its doors flew open to reveal the fifteenth floor. "But I'm only doing this for the memory of your poor robot friend. My deepest sympathies, by the way."

"Yeah, thanks." Gabriel tried to smile politely as they stepped out of the elevator. Very suddenly, the entire building seemed to dip and jerk three feet to the left, accompanied by a large booming sound.

"The photon was that?" Balthazar said, pulling himself up from the floor.

"I think it was the future I was so worried about." The elevator said, a noticeable tremor in its vocal circuits. "Good luck. I'm going to hide in the basement." The elevator descended quicker than the voice of a fourteen year old boy soprano, and left Balthazar and Gabriel stood in the middle of what sounded like a string of explosions (most likely because it was).

The building began to shake, and distant screams split through the air, coupled with earth-shattering explosions.

At the end of the corridor, a figure appeared, dark and haloed by the clouds of plaster dust.

"Angeles! Over here!"

"No!" Gabriel called back, as he and Balthazar leapt several small piles of rubble to get to him. "Angeles over here!"

"Did you know your building's being bombed?"

"Yes." The figure used his shoulder to break down a nearby office door, and motioned for them to follow. Balthazar did so, stumbling as the building shook beneath him.

"Who in the universe would want to bomb a publishing company?"

"Another publishing company?" Gabriel suggested, as the figure pointed under a computer desk.

"Get under the desks. Unless you want your brains knocked out by a chunk of ceiling."

"Who are you?" Balthazar yelled, over the deathly roar of incoming bombs.

"A friend."

"Anyone's friend in particular, or just an all-round popular guy?"

"Call me Rufus." He yelled back, before ducking under a desk of his own, as the entire building shook with destruction.


	14. Chapter 14

Balthazar managed to chance a look out of the window, from his foetal position on the floor.

"Daemons?" He yelped, recognising the horrific black ships that were quickly blocking out most of the sky. "What are they doing here?"

"Are you kidding?" Rufus stared at him. "The two of you have been running around drawing attention to yourselves. The Daemons put out a warrant for you both; they want you captured."

"Zarking photons…" Gabriel dragged himself up to peek over the edge of a window. "The ground's going away! Where are they taking the ground?"

"They're not, you moron. They're taking us."

"Where?"

"I would imagine…" Rufus sat back under his desk, glaring from one hopeless face to another, "Hellsphere. Their home planet."

"That… that can't be good." Gabriel muttered, crawling back under his desk. "When I meet this Zarniwoop guy, I'm going to kill him."

"If they don't kill you first." Balthazar grumbled, staring out of the window. "We're leaving atmosphere. Gabriel, the entire building has been kidnapped."

"And believe me, I'm flattered."

Rufus wondered exactly what he'd gotten himself stuck with.

(-*-)

On board the Daemon ship, Prostetnic Daemon Crowley sighed irritably and shot his second in command.

He really should have known better than to take on two contradictory contracts at the same time. It caused so many problems. The mice still wanted that Dean Winchester human, and as for the people who wanted the entire crew of the Impala dead…

His was not to reason why, he supposed. His was to complete his end of the deal, get filthy, stinking rich and then kill as many people as he could in the mean time.

He looked at the profiles for the people he was sure he'd already killed.

Gabriel Angeles, infamous just for being himself. Balthazar Angel, Castiel Angel, Dean Winchester and Sam the AI consciousness. Nobodies. People of note only within certain locales. But, apparently, people who would create something of a fuss if not seen to straight away.

Crowley heaved another sigh, and shot another officer. He was really getting fed up of these trifling, bureaucratic affairs.

(-*-)

The Wave Harmonic school of thought was once given the task of expressing, simply and adequately, their theory on the infinite and constant passage of time. They came up with a simple set of theories.

First, they stated that history was an illusion, caused by the passage of time.

Then, they stated that time was an illusion caused by the passage of history.

Then, their funding was revoked on the grounds that no one likes a smartass, and so they came up with their third theory:

One's perception of these illusions is conditioned by three factors; who you are, where you are, and how long it's been since Gabriel Angeles made you a drink.

The last time Dean Winchester had drunk anything that wasn't fermented berries served in a dried out rabbit-bladder, he had been at the Celestiway's restaurant. Since then, he had been catapulted back and forward in time, blown up, crashed inside another ship, had that ship crash into the remains of prehistoric Earth, burdened with the knowledge that everything he knew about his planet's history was wrong (and he was not in fact descended from apes, but from Golgafrincham internet trolls), and forced to live as a castaway survivor with his companion, Castiel Angel.

Needless to say, he could really have appreciated a bottle of Corona.

Gabriel, however, would have preferred a cake or two.

(-*-)

"So Rufus… they're taking us to Hellsphere."

"Yes. The most evil planet in the universe."

"Great." Gabriel glanced around, eyes narrowed. "There wouldn't happen to be any food there, would there?"

"Food? You want to talk about eating?" Rufus stared at him, eyes wide and incredulous. "Do you have any idea what they're going to do to you?"

"Give us a five course meal?" Balthazar suggested, ever hopeful.

"They're going to give you something alright." Rufus glared at them. "They're going to give you a world of pain and suffering. Torture, never ending emotional and physical torment…"

"Not even a coffee house or a…"

"No, Angeles. Not even a take-out place."

"Ouch..."

"We've got to get you to Zarniwoop's office." Now the building had steadied it's path, Rufus stumbled to his feet. "It's your only safe way out of here. You can hop into that parallel universe of his and escape the Daemons."

"What about you?" Balthazar dragged Gabriel to his feet.

"I'll be fine. You think I haven't faced of Daemons before?" Rufus laughed bitterly, jerking his head towards the door. "Come on."

(-*-)

Meanwhile, and several billion years previous in permanent history, Dean Winchester and Castiel Angel were still sat on the beachy shore of prehistoric San Francisco, alternating between staring longingly at the spaceship which had somehow travelled back in time to rescue them but gotten stuck in an "alternate futures" temporal anomaly, and staring longingly at each other.

"I really wish your suit wasn't all ripped up." Castiel said, eyeing the muddied, tattered remnants of Dean's clothes.

"I do to… this cost me a hundred bucks, easy, and it can't stand a year or two in pre-historic wilds…"

"No, I mean, if it covered more of you, I would probably find it easier to focus… Oh god…" Castiel sighed, burying his face in his hands. "Focus focus focus."

K-chink, came a noise from somewhere beside him.

"We need a plan, we need to get off this rock… I need a fix."

K-chink.

"No, no I don't need to get drunk or stoned, I need to plan, I need to focus…"

K-chi.

"And will you stop making that noise?"

Cas glared at Dean, who smiled guiltily, his cigarette lighter shining suspiciously between his idle thumbs.

"Sorry."

"What is that?"

"It's my lighter. Balthazar found it for me the day the Earth exploded. Or… he will find it, the day it explodes. Or something."

He thought for a moment, before looking at his wrecked-beyond-repair shirt.

"Hey, if we need to signal that ship, maybe I could set my shirt on fire and wave it…"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You're lucky you're cute, because if I was in this for the witty discussions of multi-temporal causality I'd be severely disappointed."

"So… you don't think it'd work?"

"No. That ship isn't actually there. It's only the possibility of a ship; it's a hypothetical example of one. We would need to find some method of signalling through the parallel flux of the space time continuum to create an electromagnetic pulse that would act as a fuck it you may as well try waving your damn shirt at it."

Dean grinned and pulled the remains of his shirt off, setting light to it and waving it in the air. The crackling, burning material cut swathes through the evening air, arcing above Dean's head.

"Hey!" he yelled, staring as the ship wavered. "Hey! Down here!"

"It's doing it!" Castiel gasped, stumbling to his feet as the ship slowly began its wobbling descent into the atmosphere. "It's coming down…"

"We're saved!"

"We're saved!" They laughed, rushing to each other's arms as Dean's shirt flew away in the wind, landing in the sea.

"Woah…" Cas muttered, staring out at the ship once more. "Woah, it's coming down way too fast… Pull up, you moron! Retro-thrust!"

"Cas, I think he's going to crash…"

"I think you're right…"

"I think he might crash into us…"

"I think we should get out of the way…"

But too late. The ship, all fifty tonnes of gleaming, asteroid-pitted metal bore screaming down on the fault line-ridden landscape of prehistoric San Francisco, causing the Earth to scream back at it. The ground shook and moved underneath Cas and Dean as they scrambled to avoid the ship. Mountains moved, rocks fell, the sky seemed to be torn in two…

"Phew…" Cas exhaled, as they stumbled into the dank, rocky cave.

"Good thing we didn't panic." Dean agreed. He took a few deep breaths. "So… flagging down a logically impossible space shop, being caught in an earthquake and an avalanche at the same time…"

"Yup. And I'm pretty sure there was a volcano in there too. Pretty busy day, huh?"

"Yeah… so, Cas?"

"Yes?"

"This boulder that's blocking up the cave entrance. You think we can move it out of the way?"

"Since it's possibly the size of a small house, I'm going to say no."

"Ah. And Cas?"

"Yes?"

"This cave we're stuck in… do you think there's another way out of it?"

"Pass me your lighter?"

"Here."

"Right… no. No, there's three feet of space behind me and then it's solid rock."

"Right… so we're stuck here."

"Yes."

"Well… I grabbed my bag at least."

"What's in there?"

"Stuff to make a fire with… some food and drink… and the copy of the book Balthazar gave me."

"The book?"

Castiel set about creating a large fire, so they could at least see.

"Yeah. The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of entertainment."

"Oh. That. Does it say anything about being stuck in a crack in the ground, beneath a giant boulder, with a volcano spewing lava outside and no hope of rescue?"

"I don't know…" Dean scanned the index, and put in a few search terms. The book beeped at him.

"What to do if you find yourself stuck in a crack in the ground, beneath a giant boulder, with a volcano spewing lava outside and no hope of rescue." The book said, it's pre-recorded voice bouncing off of the walls of solid stone and earth that surrounded them. "Consider how lucky you've been so far, and make the most of your last few breaths. If you have someone in there with you, now might be a good time to tell them or try out on them that thing that you've been putting off. Above all, remember that you are loved."

"Helpful." Cas supplied, warming himself by the now roaring fire. He stared up at Dean. "You can put your shirt back on now."

"No, it blew away. Fell into the sea, and then I'm pretty sure some lava rolled over it."

"Hmm… Well, the archaeologists will know you had nice taste in shirts at least."

"Yeah… So… you want to fool around, or..?"

"Jesus, shit…" Cas leapt up, as if scolded. Dean backed off.

"Ok, sorry, I thought it was…"

"No, not you… the rock I was leaning against…" Cas pressed his hands against the stone wall, staring at Dean like he was losing what slim hold on sanity he had left. "It's vibrating. The whole wall his vibrating."

"Vibrating? Who would make a vibrating rock?"

"A stoneage woman with an absent boyfriend? How should I know? Look, it's… it's cracking open."

Sure enough, the stone wall was vibrating, humming, and beginning to crack open. Cas retreated to Dean's side, and Dean found himself holding on to the smaller, equally terrified man. As if from the inside of the rock, light began to pool where the rock cracked and pulled itself open. Dean began to wonder if Cas hadn't slipped him something. The rock (which Dean was starting to suspect was not actually a rock) pulled itself open, a ramp descending from the blinding white light that pooled inside. Dean found himself shielding his eyes against such a sudden exposure to such bright, artificial light. A figure appeared at the top of the ramp, causing Castiel to almost collapse with shock in Dean's arms.

"You…" Castiel gasped, when he finally managed to get words out. "How… how are you…What are you doing in a rock?"

"You would not believe me if I told you." Gabriel beamed, leaning against the edge of the Impala's entry bay. "So come on, are you going to get in here and be rescued or do I have to stand around here staring at Dean's nipples all day? For god's sake, man, you get a little stranded on one prehistoric planet and you lose what fashion sense you had."

Gabriel stepped aside, ushering them into the preserved hull of the Impala, still beaming manically.

"Guys, do I have a story for you."


	15. Chapter 15

The Impala was almost exactly as Dean and Cas remembered it, although somehow that didn't help their conviction that they hadn't finally flipped and gone utterly mad. Gabriel led them through the bay, chatting happily as if his presence there wasn't entirely impossible. And, in his defence, it wasn't. It was just highly, highly improbable.

"Man alive, am I glad to see the pair of you." Gabriel grinned, darkly. "And I don't say that often."

Now Castiel was over his initial shock, he noticed the dark bags under Gabriel's eyes, his pallid complexion, and the tentative limp with which he walked.

"Gabriel, what happened? You look like death!"

"Hmm?" Gabriel looked around, caught himself off guard with a deep, rattling cough, looked like his head was about to fall off and then crumpled into one of the chairs on the bay. "Oh… that… Yeah, I'm… not well."

"I can see that, what happened?"

"The Daemons got me. And Balthazar."

"Hey, where is he?"

"No idea. See, they took the whole building we were in… took it to the Hellsphere."

"The Hellsphere?" Cas repeated, a kind of terrified awe in his voice.

"What's the Hellsphere?"

"Shh."

"They… they put me in the Torturemat. And… The Deific Visuo-Generator."

"Oh, no…" Castiel patted Gabriel's hand. Dean tried again.

"What's the…"

"Shh."

"Please, Castiel, I'm… I'm very ill."

"Well after going through that, I'm not surprised."

"Very ill… Excuse me." With monumental effort, Gabriel pulled himself to his feet, staggered to a nearby waste chute and vomited. Dean tried again.

"What's the Deific… Video whatever?"

"The Deific Visuo-Generator," Castiel said it slowly, tearing his eyes away from his sickly semi-cousin, "is the worst thing in the Universe. It is the ultimate torture."

"Oh, no." Gabriel leant back, looking a little better, although still pale and sickly. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and staggered back to the chair. "No, the Generator was fine. It was the party afterwards that really killed me."  
>"Afterwards?" Cas repeated, incredulously. "There isn't supposed to be an 'afterwards'. No one has ever come out of that thing alive."<p>

"Which is exactly why I had to celebrate." Gabriel shrugged. "I've been drunk for a month."

"About to initiate take-off." A familiar mechanised gruffness rattled through the ship's speakers. "Well hey there, boys. Long time no see, Cas. Monkey-man."

"Hey!" Dean scowled. "I come from a long line of…"

"Internet trolls and hack artists?" Cas finished, smiling at him demurely. Dean rolled his eyes and sat down, knowing he couldn't win.

"Anyway." Bobby chuckled. "About to initiate take-off, all drives primed and operational. Waiting on your word."

"No, hang on." Cas turned to Gabriel, still trying to nail down the facts. "How did you escape the Daemons?"

"Luck."

"How did you get the ship back?"

"Chance."

"And how did you find us?"

"Shirt."

Cas blinked. Dean blinked.

"Say again?"

"I got your shirt. I have to say, guys, way to think outside the box. It was a huge Leap of Faith to presume that, when your shirt got fossilised in that volcanic rock, six million years later when the planet got blown up, that particular chunk would become a meteorite. And to presume it would be someone with a sufficient urge and ability to time travel back to where you were… that was a big enough Leap to give me a lock on your co-ordinates! You must have been working on that day and night!"

"Uh…" Dean and Cas exchanged sideways looks. "Yeah. Yeah, that was… what you said."

"But, hey." Gabriel grinned, becoming more like his old self with every passing moment. "Don't you want to hear about what happened on the Hellsphere?"

"What's a Hellsphere?" Dean asked, feeling a little out of his depth with this conversation. For nearly two years, he'd only ever spoken to Cas. Or himself. And those conversations were usually much easier to understand.

"I thought you'd never ask." Gabriel smiled.

(-*-)

Many stories are told of Gabriel Angeles' journey to the Hellsphere. Approximately ten percent are mostly true, fifty percent are half true, and forty percent are flagrant lies. Interestingly enough, forty percent of them are also told by Gabriel Angeles, although legally, the Book is not allowed to draw any more comparison than that.

Only one completely and unerringly accurate account exists, but that has been typed and saved on an external memory bank, which was then broken, burned, blown up and finally ground to a fine powder, which Gabriel used to mix in with Sam's chassis polish to give him an extra shine.

What follows is one of the "mostly true" ten percent, otherwise referred to as "Rufus' version".

(-*-)

The building swayed and crumbled around them as Rufus, Gabriel and Balthazar stumbled towards the office of the mysterious Zarniwoop.

"Is this really any time to keep an appointment?" Balthazar muttered, skirting around blocks of fallen debris.

"It's the only safe room in the building." Rufus replied, hurrying as much as he could, given that the ground didn't seem to be entirely sure what to do with itself. "Here we are. Now go in, and… this is important, you hear? Once we land, which… is probably going to be soon… you don't leave through the door, ok? You leave through the window."

"What? Why?" Balthazar asked, and for his troubles, he got shoved into Zarniwoop's office and the door slammed in his face. Rufus staggered off to the nearest vending machines, wondering if he couldn't liberate a few snacks for the rest of his journey.

"Sweet guy." Gabriel muttered, as he examined the office. "Shame he's gone."

"Yes, I was just starting to dislike him."

The office looked pretty much like every other executive office Gabriel had ever seen. Balthazar felt a slight pang of loss as he realised it looked just like the offices he and Dean used to work in. Gabriel looked out of the window, and then quickly scrambled away from it. The reason for this was simple; ground was coming up on the other side, and it seemed very eager to meet them.

The building gave one last, juddering crash as it collided with the arid desert surface of the planet Hellsphere. Then, somehow more worryingly than all the juddering and jerking, everything was very, very still. This was worrying, because the arid desert surface of the planet Hellsphere was not the sort of place you really wanted the chance to look around at, least of all if you were actually there.

"Ugh." Gabriel surmised, looking at the dead and blighted planet.

"Yuck." Balthazar agreed. Edging through the broken window, they made the short drop to the ground and, for want of anything better to do, started walking.

(-*-)

It is important to remember, at this point, that "sadness", "bitterness", "lethargy" and "woe" have long since been established as wholly acceptable emotions for a person to have. Every race throughout the galaxy has some view or another on how innately pessimistic we all are, but it is sometimes good to have a little perspective on the matter. For example, while stranded on prehistoric Earth, Castiel may have missed civilisation and, by extension, his family, but he had a wealth of natural highs and, of course, Dean, to take his mind off of things, so on the whole things weren't that bad. Gabriel and Balthazar, however, are currently walking through a desert in such a manner that will probably lead to their deaths, if only to avoid being captured by the Daemons and put through horrible torture.

The only way a person could be worse off than them would be if, say, they were a mortal (and therefore, graced with a finite lifespan) consciousness that has been placed in an immortal (whilst in accordance with the manufacturer's warrantee) robotic body, which has then been catapulted through time and space with an almost reckless abandon, and then taken a huge leap of faith that it might survive something almost utterly insurvivable (say, the total immolation of the ship you happen to be on), in order to save the lives of everyone else in the immediate surrounding area. What would be worse still would be if, through that leap of faith, you and the wreckage of your ship were somehow teleported to a middle-of-nowhere desert planet, and left with nothing to do but rebuild the ship and whatever parts of yourself needed rebuilding, waiting for one of your crew to come find you.

This is, of course, merely a hypothetical.

(-*-)

Meanwhile, Gabriel and Balthazar trudged. They trudged in the manner of all prisoners who are making their break in a rather poorly planned escape bid; silently, and with many hostile glares at the ground, the sky, the horizon and each other.

"You know, normally they wait for me to come and get them."

"What?" Gabriel looked around, wilting under the heat.

"What?" Balthazar replied, his eyes heavy.

"Did you say something?"

"No."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment, before turning around and resuming the tired trudge.

"I mean, I appreciate the exercise, but I think we would all be slightly less pissed if you'd waited for me to turn up."

"What?" Gabriel said again, stopping and turning to Balthazar. Balthazar blinked.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Well then who did?"

"Me." Gabriel whipped around at the sound of the voice, to see a pair of almost reptilian yellow eyes hanging unaided in the air. Gabriel looked like he wasn't sure whether to faint, vomit or sneeze. The voice that accompanied the eyes chuckled.

"Yeah, that's the same face they all make. Come on, we really want to be heading over there."

So saying, the eyes bobbed off ahead. Balthazar and Gabriel exchanged looks of terror and confusion. The voice that accompanied the eyes sighed.

"If you don't follow of your own volition, I could always buzz Crowley and get him to send some gun-toting heavies to accompany you…"

Resigned to fate, they followed.

"So, I am looking at… Which one of you is Gabriel Angeles?"

"That's me."

"Ah." The yellow eyes turned on Balthazar. "Goodbye."

Balthazar disappeared. Gabriel gawped and protested, but his protest did nothing. The eyes glanced at him as they led the way.

"Now, Angeles, I am your Deific Visuo-Generator Associate, I am here to facilitate your induction into the torture program. You can call me Yellow Eyes, if it helps… everyone else does… Well, come on, the Generator doesn't doom itself to an endless agony of writhing, brain-boiling torment."

"Ok…" Gabriel started, nerves creeping in as he realised he was being walked to his near certain doom. "Why can't I… why can I only see your eyes?"

"Ah. Well, my body wanted to come, but it's… It's busy."

"Busy?"

"Yeah, you know. Got things to do… Pleasures of the flesh, I'm sure." They trudged towards a squat, domed building on the horizon. It had the look about it of an abandoned warehouse, or a secret research facility gone wrong. Gabriel started to pedal furiously through a list of possible excuses and delays, but the gnawing, cold knot of impending doom that had tied itself around his intestines was slowly making its way up the spinal column and into the brainstem.

"But… hey, don't you miss your body a little?"

"It was a fairly mutual agreement. Just a trial separation, you know, and we agreed that we really didn't need each other. At least I got custody over the eyes."

"Yeah, that's… great." Gabriel guessed. "Still, why don't we hang out? I mean, I'd love to meet the both of you…"

"Actually, we don't talk." Yellow Eyes turned on Gabriel, his tone sharp. "And if you don't shut up about it, you won't either."

"Won't? Won't what?"

"Won't talk. Just because I'm a disembodied mind, doesn't mean I can't rip out your vocal chords, sonny."

Gabriel nodded, mutely. They entered the squat warehouse, which was far bigger from inside.

The roof was a mile or so above them, and the dingy, grey painted walls stretched out into shadow. The floor was hard grey concrete, splattered occasionally with the dull brown stains of blood and bile. In the centre, under one harsh spotlight, sat the Deific Visuo-Generator.

"So… that's the generator?"

"Yes."

"Looks kind of like a broom cupboard."

"Yes."

"And why are all those wires plugged into a slice of apple pie?"

"Look, kid, I don't have the time or the patience to explain the science to you. The Generator isn't quite ready yet, so if you could just take a seat over there and put those headphones on…"

"What's on the headphones?"

"The sound of the last guy who went in there."

Gabriel put on the headphones.

The scream was the horrific noise of a man being robbed of his mind, his soul, and his humanity; a man having his self, his identity, his understanding of the universe savagely torn from him.

Gabriel took the headphones off again.

"I'm ok, thanks."

(-*-)

The universe, as has been previously stated, is pretty goddamn big.

The effect of the universe's largeness can be quite unsettling to the majority of the people who live in it, and so it is pretty much unanimously ignored, if only for a quiet life. There is no life form in the entirety of the known galaxy which can adequately comprehend, come to terms with and express the vastness of the universe, which is why the Deific Visuo-Generator is as horrific as it undoubtedly is. When you are put in the generator, you are given one momentary glimpse of the entirety of the universe, as if seen by some external God figure, along with one tiny, near invisible dot that reads "you are here".

(-*-)

Gabriel stared up from his seat, his legs shaking slightly.

"Do we really have to do this? Couldn't we… go to a party or something?"

"I may already be at one." Yellow Eyes dismissed. "My body, I mean. It does like to have fun… Not that I don't, but we have… differences of opinion. You know bodies."  
>"I used to think I did…"<p>

"Well, come on. Time to light the fuse."

"But… wait, I'm not ready. I can't…"

"No one is ever 'ready' for the Deific Visuo-Generator, Angeles. That's kind of the point. All those planets… The infinite, unbounded distances of space, the infinite people and planets in it, and the distances between them… and then you. Just another meaningless, near invisible dot, amid an infinite number of other meaningless, near invisible dots. Nothing. No one."

"Hey." Gabriel pulled himself (shakily) to his full height. "I'm Gabriel Angeles. I…"

"Am, in the grand scale of things, just as unimportant as everyone else." Yellow Eyes finished, a sadistic smugness to his voice. "It's ready for you, Angeles. Hop on in, the mind fuck's lovely."

Gabriel, every part of him shaking and yet doomed to its fate, entered the Generator.


	16. Chapter 16

Balthazar stared at his new surroundings. He stood by a fence that read "Deific Visuo-Generator Safety zone- all unauthorised personnel kindly bugger off". He had been booted from Gabriel's side, just when he might be able to rescue him.

"Well, shit." He sighed. The harsh, blinding sun of the Hellsphere beat down on him, making it hard to move. But then, it wasn't as if he'd got anywhere to go to. He wished he hadn't given Dean his copy of the Guide; he could at least check for directions off planet. Not that anyone in their right minds would go anywhere near the Hellsphere.

Sighing again (because he really had nothing else to do), he dropped down against the metal fence and closed his eyes. It had been a long day.

Before long, he was vaguely aware of a continued clanking, that seemed quieted by distance.

It was getting louder.

That meant it was heading towards him.

Little is known for definite about the Hellsphere, but Balthazar could figure out that anything approaching you was probably not good. His eyes snapped open and he tumbled to his feet, reaching into his satchel and producing something which he hoped he could use as a weapon.

"Stay back! I have a… um…"

"An open bottle of Craxivegelan mineral water." The dirty, dust-covered figure supplied. The silhouette looked oddly familiar, although with the blinding sun behind him, Balthazar couldn't make out any details.

"Yes…" Balthazar said, thinking fast. "I'll throw it at your head."

"Will that hurt?"

"No, but I've got a really bad aim so it'll probably hit somewhere further south!"

"Yes." The figure said, his shoulders slumping. "It wouldn't hurt though. Nothing but my pride, which let's face it, is eroded to a point of near non-existence anyway so I don't know why I bothered to say it. Well, come on then."

The figure turned and slowly clanked away. Balthazar cautiously dropped his defensive stance, lowering his hands. As the figure put some distance between them, he found he could focus better, not being so blinded by glare.

"Wait…" He said, his brain requesting further confirmation on the basis that his eyes had been wrong before, while his eyes continued to stick with their story. "How in the photon are you here?"

(-*-)

The act of changing perspectives at such an important moment in one characters storyline (namely, the introduction of Gabriel Angeles to his near certain doom in the Deific Visuo-Generator) was done purposefully, to heighten suspense. Of course, the intelligent reader will know that somehow, something that looks, acts and talks like Gabriel Angeles has to survive the Deific Visuo-Generator in order to return to prehistoric Earth and rescue Dean and Castiel, which we know to going-to-will-have happened (see article "Time Travel, Grammar and the you that you are now but weren't when you started reading and won't be when you've finished", pages 17 through 200). As the outcome is predetermined, suspense may only be drawn from prolonging the revelation of how the outcome was reached.

As such, it seems a relevant and fitting time to explain exactly how the Deific Visuo-Generator works, aside from "horrifically, with intent to petrify".

The Deific Visuo-Generator derives its picture of the entirety of the universe through extrapolation and deduction. If, philosophically, one can deduce oneself and others with the phrase "I think, therefore I am", then we know that any item which does not think cannot be proved to exist. However, this leads to one of two conclusions; either the universe is the product of a severely warped collective unconscious which chose to create such unpleasant non-thinking and therefore non-existent things as war, taxes and teenage pop sensations, or (the more widely agreed upon conclusion), everything that exists must also think.

This means that any one thing comprised of myriad other elements (say, an apple pie made with apple fruits from the plural Z Alpha quadrant, pastry made with ingredients from plural K Gamma through to singular L Beta and syrup from any other triangulated quadrant [for details on how to triangulate a quadrant, see pages: 317-400, 500-530 and 600]) must comprise of memories, not only of their places of origin, but of the space they have covered. Add in concepts of genetic memory and, if one were to use a simple Psycho-evaluative quantum generator to extrapolate the memories of, say, a particularly well-travelled slice of apple pie, one could deduce not only the apple pie's knowledge of the present universe, but all the symbolic importance of every other apple pie throughout history.

This is, obviously, science so soft it would make all laundry detergent manufacturers weep, but that doesn't stop it from being responsible for nine thousand, seven hundred and eighteen individuals, all of whom were put into the generator, and all of whom now remain in a prison on the planet Hellsphere, babbling, broken and utterly without hope. They are only kept from ending their pointless existences out of the sheer cruelty of their Daemon captors.

It is thus that the reader should now understand how utterly boned Gabriel really is.

(-*-)

It was a day of firsts for Balthazar.

He had never been to the Hellsphere before.

He had never been telepathically transported before.

And, he thought, as he stumbled after the clanking metallic figure, he'd certainly never been glad to see such a manically depressed hunk of metal before.

"Sam?" He managed, when he finally caught up.

"Yeah." Sam heaved a sigh, in a practiced manner. "Please, don't rush to say you're happy to see me or anything, because I know you're not."

It was definitely Sam.

"How are you still alive? We… when the Impala exploded…"

"It didn't explode." Sam sniped, his sarcasm coding reactivating as though he'd never been out of circulation. "When the escape pods jettisoned, they only caught the tail end of the Leap of Faith drive. Apparently, it was so vastly improbable that I'd survive that the entire ship was able to warp and crash here. I've spent the last twenty years repairing the damage."

"Twenty years?" Balthazar suddenly felt very rude. "Oh… I see why you're so upset. Sorry I didn't make a bigger deal about it; Gabriel and I leapt to two, maybe three days ago."

"Yes, I'd gathered that from the fact that you look exactly the same." Sam scowled, his face-plates creaking slightly with rust as they reconfigured. "That and the fact that I can carbon-date your body."

"Sam, where is the ship? Can it still run?"

"Where is the ship?" Sam repeated, stopping dead. "Where do you think I'm taking you? A scenic stroll, perhaps? Across the beautiful vista of this withered, lifeless planet to go and have a picnic in the middle of the Daemon weapon testing ground? Go to the intergalactic zoo, perhaps…"

"Will you shut up?" Balthazar barked, the rose tinted glasses he had donned when Sam was presumed dead apparently broken underfoot. "Gabriel is about to be thrown into the Deific Visuo-Generator. We need to save him."  
>"Why?" Sam sniffed, resuming his weary clanking. "I've been left here for twenty years, almost completely on my own. Not one of you tried to find me, or the ship…"<p>

"Gabriel and I were only out three days, Sam! And Dean and Cas… well, I have no idea where they are, but Dean's a human with no off-planet experience, and Cas is… well, he's Cas. But this is Gabriel we're talking about. He'd at least want to know you're alive."

"I'm just an expendable to him. A robot, a tool, a toy."

"When I asked him if he was ok, he changed the subject instantly. Didn't even try to milk the sympathy angle."

"Really?" Sam looked at him, the LED eyes narrowing.

"Truthfully. He insulted me and changed the topic. And you know Gabriel. If he doesn't want to draw attention to something, it means he really feels strongly about it."

Sam stared at Balthazar for a moment, running his speech through lie detectors, pitch analysers and subtext detectors. After a while, he nodded.

"We should hurry."

(-*-)

Meanwhile, in the high security prison reserved for victims of the Deific Visuo-Generator, a low-class Daemon was under orders to prepare a cell for the imminent arrival of "the shallow husk of a conscious being that had once identified as Gabriel Angeles".

When she opened the three inches thick, utterly impenetrable cell door, however, she found herself staring into the eyes of someone who should not be there. She knew it was someone who should not be there, because no one was supposed to be there.

"Who are…" She began, before the man smiled nervously at her, fumbled with an old-fashioned Stun-o-Matic ray gun, and hit her squarely in the chest. She fell against the far wall, paralyzed. Quietly, with a great swishing of white robes, the man scarpered down the corridor.

(-*-)

Yellow Eyes stood in front of the Deific Visuo-Generator, and would have narrowed his eyes in glee if he'd had eyelids. He'd made sure Angeles was inducted into the Generator. Crowley might get a bonus for catching him, but he'd get the pay-off for making sure the bastard was dead. As per company policy, Yellow Eyes had no idea what Gabriel had done to procure such an insistent bounty, but he honestly didn't care. It wasn't his job to care, and if he ever felt the need to, he would need to fill out several allocation forms and then shoot himself.

The door to the generator hummed open, and Yellow Eyes waited for the usual heavy slump of petrified muscle as the body fell out.

It didn't happen.

What did happen, was that Gabriel stepped out of the generator, looking confused, relieved, cocky, and ultimately unscathed.

"What?" Yellow Eyes managed.

"Hey. Now we're done with that, is there anywhere I can grab something to eat? I'm starving."

"But… you went into the generator?"

"Yeah."

"And you saw all of the universe, stretching out before you?"

"Yeah."

"And you saw yourself in relationship to it?"

A dull roar came from somewhere overhead, muffled slightly by the layers of concrete in the building.

"What?" Gabriel called back, over the increasing noise.

"I said, 'did you see yourself in relation to it?"

"Oh!" Gabriel yelled, the noise now louder than ever and accompanied by loud crunching noises. "No, was I supposed to?"

"Of course you were! What did you see?"

"I saw… what is that?" Gabriel turned, looking at the source of the noise. The ceiling behind him crumbled and turned to dust, rubble falling onto the generator and crushing it as the roaring noise grew louder. Gabriel flung up his arms to defend himself, laughing with surprise and joy as the body of the Impala crashed through the roof and landed on top of the generator.

"Gabriel!" Balthazar yelled down, as the bay doors opened. "You won't believe who I found!"

"Well… see you around. Or, preferably, not." Gabriel grinned at Yellow Eyes, before running up the ramp, clapping Balthazar on the arm and hugging Sam tight. Quietly, without any fuss or sound, the white-robed man used a sub-ether signal to pry open the auxiliary bay doors and sneak inside.

By the time Yellow Eyes had called for back-up, Gabriel, Balthazar, Sam and the white robed man had gone, leaving the generator crushed and the building with a new, Impala-shaped skylight.

Yellow Eyes decided he'd be damned if he was doing all that again, and told everyone that Gabriel had been immolated. He shot anyone who questioned him. That was how you got promoted.

(-*-)

On the bridge of the Impala, Gabriel sipped quietly at the drink he'd been making himself for the duration of recapping what had happened. Cas and Dean stared at him.

"And?"

"And?" Gabriel looked up, his hangover fading back into the darkness and leaving him more his usual self.

"And what happened after that?" Castiel barked, frustration getting the better of him. He'd been on herbal highs with only Dean for company for roughly twenty months; Gabriel was perhaps not the best person to reintroduce him to civilisation with.

"Yeah, if Balthazar was on the Impala before, how can you not know where he is now?" Dean rested a hand on Castiel's shoulder that was intended in equal parts to calm and to restrain.

"Right. Ok. That." Gabriel scraped a glob of something from his eye and wiped it on the console, earning a growl from Bobby as the ship rumbled into take off sequence. "You sure I can't get you a drink or anything?"

"Gabriel."

"Alright, fine. Sam!" Gabriel called, answered by a resounding clank. When Sam finally made it to the bridge, he took one look at Castiel and Dean and switched over to "happy" mode with a distinct hum.

"Dean! Cas! You're alive!" He closed the distance in three loping, hydraulics-aided strides, before pulling Dean into a hug that was a little too tight to be comfortable.

"Yeah…" Dean managed, crumpling as Sam let him go.

"Yeah, they're here. Sam, bring up our security footage, would you?"

"Why do you need me to do that?"

"Because I just realised I've been wearing the same clothes for a month. Need to go wash the drunk off me."

"You haven't been wearing those clothes for a month. Most of the time you spent naked…"

"And now I'm leaving out of awkwardness." Gabriel flashed his usual cocky grin at Dean, punched Cas in the arm and wandered happily off of the bridge. Sam plugged himself into the control panel and accessed the security feed. Dean nudged Cas.

"You ok?" He kept his voice low as Sam busied himself. "Glad to be back?"

"Yeah. It's just… a little bewildering."

"So… how does this affect our situation?"

"No one on the ship will care if you bunk together." Sam said, his head snapping smartly around to look at the two of them. "Objectophilia outweighs homosexuality in terms of defying sexual convention. And didn't anyone ever tell you whispering is rude?"

Dean floundered for a moment, before glaring at Sam. Damn robot senses.

Castiel snickered to himself, his hand slipping into Dean's as Sam bought up fuzzy, low-quality security footage onto the visiscreen.


	17. Chapter 17

The security footage played out in front of them, showing Balthazar, Gabriel and Sam tumble onto the bridge, ready to make firm their escape. The ship took off as normal, Gabriel clung to Sam's neck and commanded that he leave the bridge to prepare himself for "I thought I'd never see you again" sex which, judging by the trepidation on Sam's robotic features, was slightly different to "thank god we're both still alive" sex. Balthazar let them leave. There was a moment's silence, before both Gabriel and Sam were marched back onto the bridge by a man dressed in billowing white robes, and aiming a gun at them (somewhat inexpertly, but a gun is a gun).

The man made some gestures, there was a conversation that the audio didn't pick up on, and then he sighed, before grabbing Balthazar by the arm and zapping the ground beneath them with the gun. They promptly disappeared, leaving Sam and Gabriel confused, interrupted and shocked.

The security footage cut out. Dean and Cas stared at each other.

They stared at Sam.

They had recognised the man in the white robes, even if Gabriel hadn't seen fit to tell them.

"How did Chuck get on the ship?"

(-*-)

On a small moon, in the middle of nowhere, Balthazar glared at his captor.

"You're that squirrely guy, aren't you? From Krippketha. Shurleyburlfast."

"You can call me Chuck, if it helps." Chuck flashed a nervous smile, before balancing his gun muzzle-down on the ground, pulling on a few levers and turning it into a makeshift chair. He perched on the stool, white robes billowing in the little wind they were getting.

"Where are we?"

"All will be revealed. Shortly."

"How shortly?"

"When your friends arrive with the Earth man."

"Why wait?" Balthazar snarled. Chuck just glanced up at him.

"All will be revealed." He picked a rock up from the ground, and skimmed it across the low-gravity surface of the moon. "Shortly."

Balthazar wanted to ask many questions. Like "What do you want with us", "how will the Impala know how to get here" and most pressingly, "how are we breathing", but he knew Chuck wouldn't answer them. So he sat on the ground and skimmed stones.

(-*-)

"I can't believe it!" Gabriel yelled, as Bobby took care of piloting the ship to the coordinates Chuck had set before he kidnapped Balthazar. "I leave you alone for five minutes…"

"Two years, Gabriel." Cas was in one of those rare positions where he could actually claim the moral high ground, and he was using it for all it was worth. "Two years on a prehistoric planet. Not just underdeveloped; pre-development! What else was I supposed to do?"

"Not hook up with the monkey man there, that's…"

"What? You've hooked up with humans! What was Sam before he got tin-plated, huh?"

"That's not the point…"

Dean had a feeling they had both forgotten he was there. Quietly, he backed out of the bridge and went to find some coffee. He did not want to be dragged into this particular argument, although he could still hear it halfway down the corridor.

"Look, the drugs and the drinking I could take, I thought they made you more fun, but you're still supposed to be the genius on this ship and I won't have you expending your energy…"

"You aren't my mother, Gabriel, you have no say in how I expend my energy…"

"I AM THE CAPTAIN, I AM IN CHARGE!"

Dean started walking faster, argued with the Nutri-matic for five minutes about what he meant by "coffee" and then sat in the medical bay until he couldn't hear shouting any more.

It was good to be back. Probably.

(-*-)

Meanwhile, hovering some five hundred feet above the shattered remains of the offices of the Bloody Invaluable Book, safely (or, dangerously, depending on your viewpoint) ensconced in the throne-like captain's chair of the Rhaptoor Task-Force ship, Prostetnic Daemon Crowley was not amused.

"So, let me make sure I'm hearing this right." He pinched the bridge of his nose with one thin, grey hand, closing his eyes. "We got paid… a sizeable fee… to take care of the planet Earth and all its little monkey inhabitants."

"Yes, sir." The low-ranking minion trembled. He had done nothing to deserve the inevitable punishment, save daring to speak to his boss.

"But unfortunately, one "Dean Winchester" somehow escapes his certain doom, invalidating our contract."

"Yes… sir…" Crowley was being very quiet, very controlled, and almost entirely emotionless. The minion was right to be utterly terrified.

"Then we receive another, even better paying contract from the mouse Lucifer, which states we need to kill Mr Winchester's travelling companions and keep him alive, so we can deliver him back to the mice."

"Ye…"

"And then, our initial contractors give us an even better offer to kill him. Which, I am assured, we did."

"Y…"

"But I am now told that, not only is Dean Winchester somehow miraculously alive, but so are his travelling buddies, two of which carry outstanding bounties on their heads, and one of which I was assured had been fed into the Deific Visuo-Generator."

The minion stared mutely up at the hulking form of his employer, now beginning to fume with rage.

"Speak!" He barked.

"Yes… sir…" the minion yelped.

"What do you have to say?"

The minion furrowed its brow, deep in thought, before being suddenly and swiftly killed with a blast from a DeathKnell .35 ray gun.

Crowley waited for the clean-up crew to sweep the body off to the incinerator tube, and then he shot them too.

Sighing, he reclined in his chair and pushed a few buttons on the control panel that sat in front of him. On the visi-screen, a man with a mullet and a mansion appeared in front of him.

"Yo, Crowley dude. What's up?"

"Doctor Bahdas. I hope I haven't called at a bad time?"

"Nah, I was just toking up. What's happening?"

"I've just shot half my crew, and I'm feeling a little stressed."

"Right… and…"

"And as my brain-care specialist, I would hope that you had something useful to say on the matter."

"Oh, yeah, right… ok… Close your eyes."

Crowley did as he was told, with an edge of reluctance.

"Now… chill out."

"That's it?"

Ash had already hung up.

Crowley scowled at the visi-screen. He would probably have to fire his brain-care specialist.

Preferably out of something like a cannon, and into something like a wall made of nuclear fusion.

He set target for the last known location of the Impala ship, and decided that he would torture people to find out where it had gone. Who said you couldn't enjoy your work?

(-*-)

Dean finally felt it safe to put his head around the door when silence fell, followed by the quick swoop of the automatic bridge doors. Gabriel stormed past him, shooting him only a quick glare as he continued to stomp off somewhere else. Dean, hoping that he wasn't about to witness a murder scene, edged quietly onto the bridge, where he found Castiel slumped moodily in one of the chairs. He looked up when Dean entered.

"Hey."

"Hey. So… that didn't go well."

"He's protective. He's always been protective. Which I find quite ironic given that he was the one who ran away from home aged ten and decreed he would only speak to us to ask for more money."

"Ok… your bizarre family history aside, where does that leave us?"

Cas looked at Dean for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. He stood, stretched, and brushed past Dean, pausing on his way back to the medical bay.

"That depends who you mean by 'us'. It leaves Gabriel pissed off that he can't control me, and probably being an insufferable dick to you for the duration of our time together. It leaves Sam stuck as Gabriel's stress toy, therefore even more moody and irrational than usual and probably being even more insufferable for the duration of our time together. It leaves you caught in the middle of an odd family dynamic, and it leaves me going to the medical bay to find something to get high on. It also leaves me wanting to have obnoxiously loud sex just to irritate my dear cousin even further, so feel free to join me in the medical bay at any time."

Dean thought about all this for a second, then realised exactly what had been offered and stumbled happily after Cas, realising that for the first time in two years he'd get to have sex on a bed that wasn't made out of sand or plant-life. Anything other than that was not important, he decided, as he waited just long enough for Cas to swallow his pills of choice before pouncing, pressing the smaller man up against the bed, pushing as much of himself into as much of Cas' space as possible. Their tongues raced over each other, hands rapidly fumbling to discard unnecessary clothing (it wasn't like they had much, thanks to their wonderfully primitive former lifestyles) before caressing and clinging to any stretches of exposed flesh they could find. True to his word, Cas was definitely more vocal than usual, which Dean was not going to object to.

"Good luck getting rid of his space-herpes!" Gabriel's voice floated in from the next room, before he promptly commanded that Sam do something to make him oblivious to the noises.

Bobby switched off his vocal recognition software and focused on flying the ship.

Damn horny organic idjits.


	18. Chapter 18

**Just a short chapter for now. Hope everyone's enjoying it so far! Did you know I have a twitter? Come hang out with me, VikkieTheMimm **

Balthazar was miserable.

He was starting to notice that he spent a lot of his time being miserable, and he really didn't like it.

He had been miserable on Betelgeuse, stuck with his ambivalent parents and Castiel, of all people, for company. He had been miserable at Maximegalon University, because that was when Cas had decided to grow a personality, so he and Gabe had all the fun and Balthazar just had to tag along or find bail money. He had been miserable on Earth, because… well, frankly, who wouldn't be?

And now, he was miserable in space. Stuck on some god-forsaken asteroid, with a squirrelly guy who had no sense of humour.

So yes, he was pretty miserable.

Chuck sat on his gun-stool, smiling down at Balthazar.

"I am sorry that I didn't think to bring any entertainment, while we wait. I feel I was perhaps too intent on the final results of my plan, rather than execution."

"Look, just… don't talk to me, alright?" Balthazar glared. "Every time you talk to me, you make me want to ask a staggering amount of new questions, which I know you won't answer."

"All will be revealed…"

"If you say 'shortly', so help me I will throw you off this moon myself."

"I don't see what the problem is. I've given you a chance to get away from the hideously awkward reunion the crew of the Impala is no doubt experiencing. Or would you rather be there for the inevitable 'who did what to whom' conversation?"

He had a point.

That just pissed Balthazar off even more.

(-*-)

The Bloody Invaluable Book has this to say, on the subject of families:

'Families,' it says, 'are, in the broadest sense, groupings of similar items or organisms. You can have a family of instruments, a family of plant, a family of cybernetic brains and so on. In the personal sense, however, families are groups of people who share similar genetic traits, ancestors, or, in some cases, a specific relative. Since inventions such as time travel, cloning and multiamory (see article: pimps and hos) have become common place, it has given rise to new terms of relation, such as semi-cousin, half-aunt, half-parent, semi-parent, quasi-brother, and in some rare cases, half-semi-quasi-brother-cousin. That one makes for particularly awkward family reunions.'

'The terms of address, however, really make no difference. A person could be entirely unrelated to you and still count as 'family', if you have spent enough time together. No, the real definition of a family is 'a group of people who think they know your business better than you do, and most worryingly, are often right'.'

(-*-)

Dean and Cas lay quietly on the creaking bed of the medical bay. It probably hadn't been intended for such vigorous use as it had just seen, but it seemed to take the punishment fairly well. And Dean was pretty sure neither of them would be able to move for a good while yet.

He drummed his fingers on Castiel's back, glancing over the top of his scruffy hair.

"So, on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that Gabriel will throw me out of the airlock?"

"Please don't talk about my semi-cousin while I'm trying to bask in the afterglow." Cas cracked one eye open and rolled over slightly, so he could glare at Dean.

"Sorry. Just… seriously, is he really going to be mad at me?"

"Why do you care?"

Dean shrugged, falling quiet as Cas nodded decisively and went back to using the human's chest as a pillow.

Dean drummed his fingers against Cas' back again.

"It's just I've picked up on this "Gabriel Angeles, President of Everything" thing and I…"

"Ok, please stop." Cas sat up and glared at him some more.

"I'm sorry," Dean shrugged, "it's just that, where I come from, if you're involved with someone, you generally want the family to like you."

"Yes, but where you're from, people think personalised ringtones are still a pretty neat idea."

"Cas…"

"Alright. I'll talk to him." Cas sat up, shooting Dean another quick glare. "I don't see why you care, though. It's just Gabriel…"

"Hey, lovebirds," Bobby's voice jumped through the speakers. "I'm going to need everyone on deck for the landing. This is not the kind of sky the autopilot can deal with."

Dean was still struggling back into his pants, as Cas swept away to the bridge.

(-*-)

The sky was certainly an interesting one. Meteoroids zoomed from one horizon to the other, crashing into each other and fragmenting into thousands of pieces. The crew of the Impala stood and stared as great, hulking rocks loomed out of the shadows and flew freely past them.

"Think you can do it?" Gabriel turned to look at Cas, fully realising for the first time how small and fragile his semi-cousin looked.

"Yeah," Said Cas, his tongue darting briefly over his lips. "Probably. I'm going to need complete quiet though." He sunk into the pilot's chair, and gripped onto the controls, his knuckles turning an even paler shade than they were naturally.

Dean rested a hand on Castiel's shoulder, but Cas shrugged him off.

"Not now, I need to focus."

"Yeah, I just want to…"

"Dean, shut up and back off. This isn't Jurassic Park any more."

"I was just trying to…"

"I said I needed silence; if you can't leave me alone for five minutes, get off the bridge."

Dean duly backed off.

Gabriel watched all this unfold in silence. Sometimes, just sometimes, he really did get sick of being right.


	19. Chapter 19

Castiel had been flying since he was a child. It had started with remote controlled aircraft, moved on to low range vehicles, and by the time he'd graduated Maximegalon university, he was the only pilot to ever qualify for his license while under the influence of three different types of hallucinogenic drugs. He, of course, lost his license two days later when he tried to fly during the come-down, but he managed to regain it through bribery, corruption and blackmail. Often while piloting.

This, then, was the third most terrifying course Castiel had ever had to pilot.

Dean watched with a queasy sense of awkwardness as Cas manipulated the controls. Regardless of how much time they had actually spent together, Dean was becoming more and more of the opinion that there wasn't really a time when that hadn't been the case.

Yes, Dean had been born and raised on Earth, blissfully unaware of the insanity that waited beyond his planet, but he often felt as though the "him" he was now was an almost entirely different person to the him he was then. This Dean travelled on space ships, had a babel fish in his ear, and, most importantly, spent most of his time with Castiel.

It was weird, to see Cas so different as he sat in the pilot's chair. Brow slightly furrowed with concentration, focusing on the looming meteorites, Cas seemed… sober. He seemed unnervingly, shockingly sober.

"Freaky, huh?" Gabriel muttered, glancing over at Dean. He pointed at the bridge doors, and made a gesture for him to follow. Dean wasn't scared.

Not exactly.

He could take Gabriel, if it came to a match of sheer brute force, but he had no way of knowing what strange alien devices the guy had.

He followed, reluctantly.

"He used to be like that all the time, you know." Gabriel said, as soon as the bridge doors had shut behind them. He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered down the corridor. Dean, at a loss for anything else to do, followed.

"Who? Cas?"

"Yup. Serious, sober, down-to-earth… boring."

"What happened?"

"He spent too much time with me." Gabriel smirked. "Went to college, fell in love, got addicted to various… things…"

"Drugs?"

"And a super-intelligent shade of the colour blue."

"What?"

"Forget it, Monkey. Anyway. The point is, he's made life hard for himself. Don't be surprised if he gets a bit bipolar on you. I mean, not all couples can be as wholesome and balanced as me and Sam."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but he honestly had no idea what. He closed it again.

"Don't take it personally." Gabriel shrugged, aiming a kick at the Nutri-matic machine. "It's not you. It's the general idea of Cas being in a position where he has the trust of another organic being."

"Me and Cas are fine." Dean said. Gabriel didn't buy it, and the swift raising of one eyebrow said as much. Dean insisted, "We are. We just… need to work things out."

"Yeah. Fine. Just don't expect me to be above saying I told you so." Gabriel took a mug from the vending machine, filled with what looked like the inside of a glow-stick. "Because I'm not."

The ship pitched drastically to the left, and Gabriel's neon beverage ended up all over the wall. The wall hissed angrily where the drink touched it.

"Nuts."

(-*-)

Cas slumped against the chair as they edged past the last meteoroid, and back into open space. It had been turbulent to say the least, and as he regained his ability to think about anything other than not getting hit, he realised he probably should have made sure everyone was strapped into safety harnesses before he'd performed some of the more acrobatic evasive manoeuvres. The bridge doors slid open behind him.

"A little warning would have been nice."

"We're all alive, aren't we?" Cas shrugged, turning a shaky smile on his semi-cousin. "Wait… are we?"

"Your boyfriend might have concussion, but he's still breathing, more's the pity."

"Screw you." Cas advised, hopping out of the chair and wandering past Gabriel.

"Someone really should." Gabriel returned, wondering whether Sam had gotten any new dents during that second aerial flip.

When Cas eventually found Dean, he was sat by the nutri-matic machine, clutching his head and swearing quietly to himself.

"Hey."

"Oh, am I allowed to talk to you now?"

"What?" Cas blinked, extending his hand to help Dean up. "Dean, I was a little busy before… you know, keeping us all meteorite free?"

"And that's very much appreciated. But don't feel you have to come talk to me now you're done."

"I've hurt your feelings." Castiel said, although Dean couldn't figure out if it was a statement, a question or a snide remark. "You humans really are impossible."

"Yeah, you could say that." Dean stood, ignoring Castiel's hand. "Tell me something, how is it I just ended up defining our relationship with your cousin, and you still think we're fine?"

"Semi-cousin." Cas corrected, grabbing Dean's hand. "If I told you this was how things worked in space, would you let it go and… you know, stop being an ass?"

"No…"

"We can go back to the medical bay…"

Dean really didn't want to think that human males were so easily led by the suggestion of sex that they could be convinced to drop any issue. But he'd had a really long day, and he happened to know for a fact that Castiel had read all of Balthazar's notes on human culture. Really, he didn't have a chance.

(-*-)

When the Impala eventually arrived at the small moon in the middle of nowhere, everyone on board was slightly more at ease with each other. Balthazar, however, was not.

"Where the shitting hell have you been?" He demanded, as the ramp descended. "I've been stuck on this bloody rock, with no one but this creep who refuses to answer my questions, and why is Castiel smiling like that, Cassy don't look at me like that, you know it unsettles me… oh god." Balthazar glared at Dean. "What did you do?"  
>"It's good to see you, man." Dean replied, clapping Balthazar on the shoulder. Balthazar sent petulant glares around, as everyone turned to Chuck.<p>

"So what was so important that you had to kidnap Balthazar to get us here?"

"Well…" Chuck motioned for them to walk, through the rocky, dune-covered terrain of the small moon. "After you all left Krippketha, I had a look through the company's information files on the Earth marks one and two. I found some… interesting information."

"Interesting?" Gabriel repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

"Balthazar?" Chuck said, as they approached the crest of a particularly large dune.

"Yes?"

"You know I kept telling you everything would be revealed, in time?"

"Yes."

"It's time."


	20. Chapter 20

Chuck's robes billowed as the lack of gravity picked at them, and he turned doleful eyes on the group of weary travellers.

"To explain why I brought you all here, I kind of have to tell you all a story. This is the story of a book. Or, to be more accurate, 'The Book'.

"It is perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come from the Megadodo Publishing Company of Ursa-Minor Beta. It's more popular than _"How Clean is your Hypercube"_, more informative than _"Where Are They Now: God"_, and more popularly referenced than _"100 more things to do in a wormhole"_. In fact, in many of the more theocratic societies across the southern belt of the universe, it actually surpasses the _"Encyclopaedia Galactica" _as the standard repository of knowledge, even though the disclaimer on the back clearly states that almost all advice contained within The Book is at best inaccurate and at worst allegorical.

"Reasons for its popularity are… there are many, but it mainly stems, first from the fact that it's substantially more published and therefore cheaper, and second, it has the words "You are Loved" written in arcing, authoritative script on the front cover. And let's face it, it's hard to argue with something in that sort of script.

"This book, 'The Book', is the most well used, most well reputed book in the history of published words, with a version or translation of one edition or another on even the most primitive, under-evolved of planets in every galaxy.

"This book is, as you've probably guessed, "The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment". And, to tell the story of the book, I must tell the story of the man who created it. He is said to have outlived any use of a given name, and now only goes by the name of Zarniwoop. The same Zarniwoop who planted a post-hypnotic suggestion into the mind of ex-Prime Minister of the Universe, Gabriel Angeles. The same Zarniwoop who, in order to finally discover the meaning of life, the universe and everything, sent Rufus to make sure that Gabriel and Balthazar both remained within his personal parallel universe. The same Zarniwoop you will hopefully, soon meet."

"But, whoa, whoa whoa." Gabriel shook his head. "Back up. What the hell?"

"You went to Zarniwoop's office in the Bloody Invaluable Book's headquarters, yes?"

"Yeah, before the Daemons air-lifted it." Gabriel said, getting the feeling he was either too drunk or not drunk enough to deal with this conversation. "So what?"

"When he left you," said Chuck, with the sort of patience that was not so much thin as it was naturally withered and decayed after centuries of carefully maintained mummification, "Rufus told you not to use the door, didn't he? I'll guess he told you to go through the window instead."

"Yes." Balthazar was starting to regret ever having asked anything. "But what does that… oh." Realisation dawned in his eyes like the morning after a very long party; sudden, wondrous and not at all welcome. "Wait…. No! They wouldn't… but they bloody did… are we..?"

Chuck nodded.

Dean did not like that Balthazar wasn't finishing sentences, because he had learned that it usually meant he had less time to brace for impact.

"What? What does it mean?"

"We went into his parallel universe… and never left," Balthazar grinned. "Genius. So, wait, what about those two? Are they..?"

"That was the incongruity." Castiel said, eyes wide with realisation. "The Temporal Anomaly. The universes joined, merged… we crossed from the one in which we were trapped, to the one where we could escape."

Chuck nodded.

"In this universe, you can finally find the reason for it all. Why the Earth was destroyed before the program could run. Why the Daemons came after you to finish the job. Why Zarniwoop sent Gabriel to his office and why Gabriel was Prime Minister in the first place."

"I had been wondering about that," Cas nodded.

"So, can you tell us?" Dean was really getting tired of space people talking in riddles. He wondered if, on that fateful Thursday when Lisa had left him and he'd gotten fired, and he tripped over outside his apartment and cracked his head on the floor, he hadn't just fractured his skull and was now dreaming all this weird shit as he bled out onto the sidewalk. Cas gripped his hand, and Dean supposed there were worse things to have dying fever dreams about.

"No. I can't even go through with you. But I can tell you that, once you're through, the world will be a very different place. And… and you might not like it, or the answers you find. But you have to do it."

"Why?" Gabriel rolled his eyes, sagging under the burden of responsibility. "Why can't we just get back in the Impala and leave your sorry ass here?"

"Because otherwise we'll never know." Sam spoke, for the first time. "We're the only ones who could stand to find out. And the Daemons won't leave us alone until we do."

Chuck nodded, grimly.

"So follow me, and you'll see what I mean."

Knowing that they were stuck between certain death and complete unknown, the group of weary travellers slowly followed Chuck up, over the ridges of sand dunes that covered the small moon, and towards what looked very much like a door.

"Why is there a door?" Dean asked, feeling very out of his depth.

"To gain entrance to another dimension," Chuck smiled his nervous, squirrelly smile which made Dean want to punch him, "you must have an entry point."

The door (cedar wood, painted white with a tarnished gold-plated handle) was not connected to anything except the floor and the surrounding frame. It swung open at Chuck's touch, and the group hesitantly edged into it. Chuck stood back and waved as they disappeared into the whirling, off-white portal.

When the door closed itself again, Chuck turned on his heel and made his way back to the Impala. He supposed he should look after it until they came back. And what would be wrong with looking after it on the glorious, desert island planet of Azarian, which had recently received the title of "best vacation destination this side of the dimension" by the Bloody Invaluable Book?

The Impala quietly left the small desert moon.

(-*-)

The Book has this to say on the subject of flying.

"Flying," it says, "is very much like falling, and the difference between them lies entirely on the outcome."

"There is something of an art, or rather, a knack to flying. The trick lies in being able to throw yourself at the ground and miss."

It goes on to explain the theory of conveniently forgetting gravity at a point during the "throwing yourself at the ground" bit, by way of a sudden distraction which takes up more thought, but noting the exact details of the passage would not have helped Dean Winchester, or any of his companions, who suddenly found themselves plummeting through a featureless white void, with wind rushing past their ears and wisps of cloud tearing through their fingers.

The Book's passage on flying is currently under edition, as several users have left comments pointing out the difficulties of following a step by step guide when trying to throw yourself at the ground and miss.


	21. Chapter 21

**Long time no update! Uni work has been major stress, lately, as has my personal life… blegh. But hey, I'm better now, and back to updating! Don't forget, I have twitter and tumblr (look for VikkieTheMimm) and I'm always happy to chat.**

**(-*-)**

"AAARGH…" managed Dean, as the air whipped past his ears at what felt like a shockingly fast speed.

"GAAHHH…" Gabriel agreed, his arms flailing in a valiant, if futile, attempt to slow his descent.

"Well, this is it," Sam droned, his voice circuits running at maximum volume over the roaring wind. "We're going to die."

And, though no one wanted to admit it, it looked very much as though Sam's brain-the-size-of-a-small-moon had stumbled onto the only possible outcome of their current situation, hurtling as they were at an ever increasing pace towards what must logically be the ground.

"TULIPS!" Castiel yelled, grabbing wildly at Dean and Balthazar's sleeves.

"WHAT?" Balthazar yelled back, perplexed and annoyed.

"TULIPS! While I was on Earth, I think they were my favourites!"

There as a stunned pause in everyone's terrified screaming.

"What?"

"I only mention it…" Castiel yelled again, trying to steer Balthazar towards Gabriel so they would all be falling at the same pace, "Because I remember being in a similar situation on Santriginus 5, and I suddenly saw a rare flower growing out of the cliff face."

There was another pause, as everyone stared at him.

"AND?" Gabriel screeched, having his patience sorely, sorely tested.

"I was so shocked by the sight, I guess I kind of forgot to keep falling. I sort of… flew."

"Seriously?" Dean said, his hands dropping the wrists he'd been clinging on to, out of shock.

"Dean!" Balthazar and Cas gasped, as Dean suddenly stopped falling, and hovered in the air above them.

Gabriel then said something in Betelgeusian for which there is no literal translation, but for which Dean's babel fish supplied the words "go forth and fornicate into a bucket whilst a goat shits in your hair".

Everyone else was so shocked at hearing this word that they too hit a sort of air brake. Gabriel plummeted on for a bit, realised everyone else was hovering unaided, and hit something of an air wall.

(-*-)

The Bloody Invaluable Book has this to say on the subject of flying:

"Flying is a neat trick, if you can do it. It relies on achieving a near critical free-falling velocity, and then suddenly being so distracted by something other than the impending ground, that gravity quite happily looks the other way, presuming you are following along as you should be. It is, on a larger scale, the same phenomenon that allows people to have entire conversations during which the second party has gotten distracted and wandered off, without either noticing the other's absence."

"Once you have achieved the initial break from gravity, it is most important that you remain unobserved. Not for the sake of secrecy or tactical advantage, but merely because the most likely thing any observer would say at that point is "you can't possibly be flying". And if you listen to them, odds are that they will almost instantly become right."

(-*-)

"We can't possibly be flying…" Balthazar gasped, staring at the inky dark void of their surroundings.

"No shit…" Dean looked form one stunned face to another. "This is… impossible."

Everyone lurched downwards again.

"AAAHHhh how many sevens in fifty six?" Castiel shouted, his eyes screwed shut.

Stumped by the sudden brainteaser, the group of intrepid heroes were yet again hovering in the air.

"Ok." Gabriel swallowed both his hearts back into place. "Now what?"

"We drift." Castiel supplied, gripping the hands of Dean and Balthazar. "Slowly, we ride the air currents down to… wherever this tunnel ends."

It seemed like a plan. Gabriel held on to Balthazar, who held on to Cas, who held on to Dean. Sam drifted down alongside them.

"Wait, I get what we're doing." Gabriel glared at Sam. "How are you flying?"

"Anti-grav turbos in my feet." Sam sighed. "They told me they'd be useful, one day. It's so annoying that they were right."

"So what was all that 'we're going to die' crap?"

Sam shrugged.

"It seemed like the right thing to say."

Gabriel rolled his eyes and continued gingerly pushing his way through the air.

When they eventually touched down, they were none the wiser as to where they actually were. They appeared to be at the bottom of some sort of well or shaft, wide enough across to have the five of them stand in a row. The walls were slick with some sort of grime, and the floor was a hard surface that clanged metallically whenever someone took a step.

"Alright," Gabriel was not far from lying on the floor and screaming, "So we just fell out of one world and into another, who knows how far down a greasy pit with nothing on the bottom worth falling for. Who's the wise guy?"

"Wise guy?" A familiar, disembodied voice chirruped. "Well, the wisest man in our offices would be Mr Zarniwoop. His office is on the fifteenth floor."

"Balthazar?" Gabriel spoke slowly, through gritted teeth.

"Um… yes?"

"Does that or does that not sound to you like the hideously smug elevator we were stuck with in the Hitchhiker's guide offices?"

"Um… yes. Yes, it does."

"That's most likely because I am." The elevator hummed. "So glad to see you met up with your friends, and survived that nasty building take-over. I'll get you to Zarniwoop's office straight away. Going up!"

They felt the elevator they were standing on glide back up the way they had come.

Gabriel swore some more.

(-*-)

When they reached the fifteenth floor, the elevator stopped just high enough to open the door and let the weary group off. Dean was suffering from a version of altitude sickness that was less from going up and down, and more from being tired of feeling like he lived in someone's pocket.

"So who's Zarniwoop?" He said, feeling that his comments about wanting a cold beer and a prime rib steak would not help the situation.

"Some guy Gabriel told himself he needed to go see, even though he's never heard of him before." Balthazar summarized, shaking his head at Dean's raised eyebrow. "You had to be there."

"And here…" Gabriel rounded the corner of the spotless corridor which had, the last time he'd seen it, been almost entirely reduced to rubble, "it his office."

With a noticeable air of trepidation, he pushed open the door.

The office was sleek, sparse and executive.

The office was large, with a hyper-aware LCD display covering the entirety of one wall, in which spun the generated graphic of an artificial universe.

The office, much to the group's dismay, was empty.

"Another lead up to nothing." Dean sniffed. "Seems to be something of a pattern in my life lately."

"Better not be including me in that." Cas muttered, before smirking at Dean's blush.

Gabriel prowled around the desk, examining the pieces of paper that were scattered across it.

"Hey, I know this guy…" He held up a picture of a man with a mullet and a less than sober smile. "He's my braincare specialist."  
>"Yeah, I went to university with him." Cas stared at the picture. "Ash Bahdass… Why is his picture…"<p>

"BECAUSE…" Boomed a voice from a speaker in the middle of the desk, "HE IS THE ONE WHO ORDERED THE DEMOLITION OF THE PLANET EARTH, AND OBSCURED THE QUESTION THAT YOU HAVE ALL BEEN SENT IN SEARCH OF."

"Ok, one, ow." Dean began, turning the volume on the speakers down to a much more manageable level, "and two, can you come in here and talk to us properly? I'm getting real tired of all this mystery crap."

"I'm afraid I can't be there in person." The voice sighed. "Very important meeting, can't get out of it."

"Nothing to do with the building magically returning itself to a pre-kidnap state, huh?" Gabriel scowled.

"Ah, yes… that was… unfortunate, admittedly, but we had to make sure you were ready. Strong enough…"

"It was a set up?" Balthazar slumped into one of the sleek, executive chairs near the desk.

"A simulation. Once you left the elevator, everything you experienced was clever simulation."

"Zarniwoop?" Gabriel sat behind the desk, staring at the speaker.

"Yes."  
>"Why do I want to talk to you?"<p>

"Because you want to remember why you became prime minister."

"I… what?"

"This whole experience… the battle over the Ultimate Question, between the Mice, and the…"

"Men?" Dean supplied, officially giving up.

"Brain care specialists." Zarniwoop sighed. "He and the entire Union of Brain care and Maintenance Specialists have been lobbying to make sure that the Ultimate Question is never found out."  
>"Why?" Balthazar was dangerously close to joining Dean in camp Don'tgiveafuck.<p>

"Job security." Cas said, before Zarniwoop could answer. "Their job relies on people not knowing how to handle their lives. They must want people to remain uncertain."

"Exactly."

"So, what, you're with the Mice?" Gabriel pressed his palms over his eyes. "You want to buy the monkey-man's brain?"

"No, nothing so primitive. I'm with a third party. The people who want to know something bigger, something bolder…" There was a brief pause. "Throughout the ages, life has only survived through trying to answer its own questions, 'why, how, what'… but this is inverted, you see? We raced ahead of ourselves, and found an answer we had no question for. Our third party believes something, somewhere, went horribly wrong. Further back in the mists of time than anyone dare go… Our third party wants to ask…."

"No. Ok, no." Castiel threw his arms up in the air. "Whatever it is you're about to ask us to do, we refuse. All I wanted to do was get out of my research job designing ship drives, and go have some fun on the party planets. We have been thrown about, torn apart, put who-knows-where and who-knows-when, we found the question, by the way, or a bastardisation of it, and all it proved was that the joke is quite literally on us. We've fallen out, fallen in love, done just about every damn thing we could do to stay alive and out of prison, and I refuse to be fate's pawn any more. I refuse to be dragged through one improbable situation after another. So you know what I am doing?"

Castiel shoved Gabriel away from the desk, found a small control panel, and worked the keys like a concert pianist. The display behind him fluttered and flashed, to several ignored complaints from the voice of Zarniwoop.

"Dean, what's your favourite colour?"

"Blue? Or green, I guess."

"Imaginative. I am currently password protecting our own virtual reality. Our planet will be called "Fuck You, Assbutt", and it will have blue skies and green grass. The sea, however, will be purple. Dean?" Cas grinned at him, his eyes flashing like the sun on ice. "Are you coming?"

Dean looked around the assorted group, who were all staring back at him, nonplussed.

"Yeah. If you guys are coming too."

"And I'm taking this with me." Cas wrenched the controls from their sockets, earning a scream and a hiss from the speaker on the desk.

"You… you probably shouldn't have done that…" Zarniwoop's warning was too late, as even now blinding light was filling the room, the screen cracking in two as the universe inside spun, shone and grew too quickly for it to calculate. There was a horrible warping, stretching feeling, and Dean was sickeningly reminded of his first attempt at travelling through hyperspace on that Daemon streamlining ship, what felt like years ago.

There was a high pitched, whining, electronic scream.

There was light, and noise.

Then, there was nothing.


	22. Chapter 22  The End

This was the story of a book. Or, to be more accurate, 'The Book'.

It was perhaps the most remarkable, certainly the most successful book ever to come from the Megadodo Publishing Company of Ursa-Minor Beta. It was more popular than "How Clean is your Hypercube", more informative than "Where Are They Now: God", and more popularly referenced than "100 more things to do in a wormhole". In many of the more theocratic societies across the southern belt of the universe, it had even come to surpass the "Encyclopaedia Galactica" as the standard repository of knowledge, which was widely disputed as a dumb move, as the disclaimer on the back clearly stated that almost all advice contained within The Book was at best inaccurate and at worst allegorical.

However, it did score over the older, more pedestrian "Encyclopaedia Galactica" on two levels; first, it was substantially cheaper, and second, it had the words "You are Loved" written in arcing, authoritative script on the front cover.

This book ('The Book') was the most well used, most well reputed book in the history of published words, with a version or translation of one edition or another on even the most primitive, under-evolved of planets in every galaxy.

This book was "The Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment".

The offices of the Book were destroyed when a freak virtual wormhole was created inside the office of the head of indexing, one Mr Zarniwoop. None of the reporters or creators were ever heard from again, and as such, the book could not continue. Megadodo publishing went bankrupt within the month. Some said it was a sad end for a book that had helped more people through more regions of time and space than anything else in the history of the universe. Others disagreed. Wherever the writers and creators had gone to, it was probably better than the slick, corporate douche-bag atmosphere of Ursa-Minor Beta. Either way, that was how The Book ended.

However, should anyone wish to tell the story of The Book, they must first tell the story of a man. This man (human, Homo Sapiens of the planet 'Earth') had no more understanding of his destiny than the most poorly constructed apple pie did of its cultural saturation in English speaking nations, nor the symbolism attached to it through its appearance in various media.

His name is Dean Winchester. He is somewhere between thirty two and thirty five, though he has honestly lost count himself, and he is unemployed. He has not been gainfully employed since the destruction of his home planet and, really, he's ok with that. To top it all off, he often comes home from a hard day's hunting and gathering in the mauvish forests or fishing in the deep purple sea to find that his boyfriend, one Castiel Angeles, has not only left him to get wasted with the tribes of ex-Book reporters who happened to get sucked into the vortex that opened up when the new planet was created, but that he has taken the front door keys with him.

On occasions such as these, Dean will often find his way to one of the six bars you can find on any street, and get a beer for himself and his good friend Balthazar (if said friend isn't too busy hooking up with some girl who used to be an accountant), or sometimes even with Gabriel or Sam.

When you're sleeping with the creator of the planet "Fuck You Assbutt", who is worshipped as a liberator of the oppressed creative of Megadodo publishing, the beers are free, no one tries to blow you up or send you through time, and on the whole, life can't not be pretty sweet.

And when Chuck rocked up with the starship Impala, thanks to the soul drive and his belief that he'd find somewhere that made a decent Gargleblaster (a cocktail, the recipe for which was stored in the book and has since been lost to the mists of time), he had Bobby the shipboard AI run the numbers on their quality of life, just to make sure that nothing would get to the weary group.

And Bobby did run the numbers.

And Dean saw that it was good.


End file.
